


The Art of Pruning

by LittleLinor



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Multi, Sexual Abuse, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 27,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunger Games AU.<br/>For the second time in as many years, Naoya finds himself mentoring someone close to him, and he has no illusions as to why.<br/>(See notes for detailed warnings)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Art of Pruning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [o0whitelily0o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0whitelily0o/gifts).



> All responsability for this AU goes to Lily, to whom I dedicate this fic.  
> More characters will be added when I add more drabbles--they'll all be posted here for clarity's sake and to avoid spamming the tag.  
> General warning for what you might expect from a hunger games au (character deaths, manipulation and politics, PTSD), as well as everything that makes Naoya/Protag.  
> Although this is tagged as non-con, it refers mostly to sexual harassment. While there will be hints of another character having been raped, none of it happens on screen. I will also warn at the beginning of every chapter if abuse, sexual or psychological, occurs.  
> I'm also keeping it sfw as far as sex is concerned. If I write any smut for this series, it will be as oneshots and linked at the end. So the rating is purely for violence and psychological abuse.

"Will Minegishi's tributes hold it out longer this time?" the presentator teased in a cheerful, conspiratory voice. "Or will they follow the same unfortunate path as his brother? The odds certainly don't seem in their favour, with that meek personality and those subpar skills--"  
 _Good luck with that 'meek personality' once Yuzu gathers herself together and starts fighting back_ , he thought, but Yuzu, thankfully (probably) had already gone to bed. The stress and sadness made her sleep, apparently. He, on the other hand, hadn't had a proper night in over a week.  
But rather than Yuzu, it was Naoya who turned the tv off and cut the voice mid-sentence, his scowl bordering on a snarl.  
He looked as tired as them, Atsuro realised suddenly. His eyes had been almost too dead for bitterness for the last year, but now that emotion was seeping back into his face, Atsuro almost wished they would vanish again. The anger was nothing new. He'd seen it for years, barely hidden under the surface, quietly camouflaged into polite words. But now, what he saw seeping through was pain. Pain, and an edge of something hopeless.  
He found himself wondering, with a chill, if he would even have tried, if Atsuro and Yuzu hadn't been the tributes.

"... it's all nonsense, right?"  
"That I'm a failure as a mentor?" Naoya almost snorted.  
"That you let him lose on purpose. Everyone was saying it, last year... but it makes no sense." Not when the last words Kazuya had said to him had been 'I'll come back. I have to.'  
Naoya looked up at him, the sarcasm finally leaving his face. He kept his eyes unmoving, fixed on Atsuro's own, for several tense, dragging seconds, before finally speaking up.  
"Did they ever detail my game's tally for you?"  
Atsuro shaked his head.  
"I was too young, mom didn't want me to watch, aside from compulsory updates... she said it'd come too close to home all too soon..." He chuckled bitterly. It was probably for the best that she would never know how right she had been. "And you didn't give us the video." He looked up. "I've been meaning to ask about that."  
"I considered it. But I'm not sure watching it would be to your advantage."  
"Why?"  
"Have you ever wondered why I'm such an unpopular victor? It might put you in more danger than you already are."  
Atsuro paused.  
"... I always assumed it was because you didn't play their game of looking happy when you came back?"  
Naoya smirked.  
"Well, that only made it worse." He poured himself a glass of water. "The truth is, even if you'd been allowed to watch, you might have had trouble keeping count yourself. For someone who actually won the games, there is surprisingly little footage of me on the official broadcast."  
"... but you're the victor. How did they manage to show the games without showing people the action? They have a public to keep interested, right?"  
Naoya's strained smile widened, and for a second, Atsuro could almost glimpse the pride he used to see in his mentor's face, the discreet smiles that would come to him when Atsuro understood things quickly and precisely.  
"Aah, but you've stumbled on a very important point. They want to focus on the _action_." He took a sip of his glass. "Do you know the real trick to winning the games, Atsuro? Not merely staying alive. Actually winning."  
Atsuro swallowed. He'd been mentoring them for a while, now, putting together strategies, exploiting their hidden strengths. If he hadn't mentioned this before...  
"The greatest mistake most kids do," Naoya continued, "is to see the games as a battle. It's not." He put his glass down, and stared straight at Atsuro. "The games are a _hunt_. You are not fighting anyone, because someone you fight is your opponent, your equal. The moment you allow yourself and them the humanity of fighting, you've already lost."  
"So what you're saying is..."  
"They are your prey. That is the only real way to win, aside from chance. Don't fight. Track, stalk, manipulate, weaken, trap, and execute. If you can get the environment to kill them for you, do. If you can make them kill each other, do. You have to take control of their movements, their resources, and their mind."  
Atsuro stayed silent. It was hopeless, he thought, his stomach cramping at the realisation. Even if he had somehow been hardened enough to see others as prey, he didn't have Naoya's mind. There was only so much he could predict of others' actions.  
The arena, though... the arena might be a different question.  
"It's the best way to win," Naoya continued. "But it's also what they hate most. No battles means no big bloodbaths to show on tv. Subtle manipulation doesn't translate well on screen, not unless you're the one doing it, or the victim's already dead. But more importantly... They hate you for being in control. You're not supposed to be. The public gets off on your lack of power, of your choices being stripped from you. When you take that control, and especially if you use the arena to your advantage, you are pulling the ground from under their feet. And they hate that." He smiled bitterly. "I was too good, too in control. And that's what landed you, Yuzu and Kazuya here.  
"Naoya--"  
"Don't. You know it's the truth."  
"... it's their fault. Not yours."  
Naoya stopped, his mouth closing before he could retort. After a second or two, he averted his eyes.  
"You're too nice, Atsuro. Don't let that get you killed."  
"I'll try."  
Naoya sighed, looked at his hands, and finally chuckled.  
"But anyway. Going back to your original question..." He looked up. "How many tributes are there in the game, Atsuro."  
"Twenty four?"  
"Good boy. Of these twenty four, six didn't make it past the murderous first hour."  
Atsuro nodded.  
"Of the remaining eighteen... seventeen, discounting me, thirteen died by my hand." Atsuro's breath came short as his mind reeled, but Naoya continued. "Does that answer your question?"  
He thought back to Kazuya's own reaping, to his eyes as he told Atsuro that failure was not an option, that he would not allow himself not to come back.  
It did.


	2. Fallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally incapable of writing chronologically. Have a Naoya games era drabble

A week after you were ushered out of the arena and in front of a crowd of somewhat baffled and distrustful painted faces, you find yourself grappling with the fact that the Games have come to an end.  
You understand the concept, of course. You put your entire strength, all your mental and physical resources, towards this goal. But now, as you watch the scenery deccelerate into familiar views, you find yourself thinking that maybe you shouldn't have tried at all.  
You killed that last tribute, used his own anger against him to trap him and execute him, and yet. You have not left the games.  
You left the arena, of course. You were healed, and fed--the worst toll the arena had taken on your already frail body, truth be told; the two weeks of fattening they forced on you before the games couldn't undo years of neglect and picky eating--and congratulated by very uncomfortable looking officials, and a much too amused game commentator--and _his_ attention you could have done without. But the games, the emptiness they bred in you--that you bred in yourself, in order to win, have not left you. You stare at district 3 through the window of the now-unmoving train, and try in vain to find any connection to it, any feeling of life.

You perform the basic acceptable standards of polite conversation. You step out of the train.  
Every person waiting for you outside is a body, with its weaknesses. A mind, with its weaknesses. A heart that can be exploited and broken. But mostly bodies; you do not get yourself to care about them enough to go as far as the mind.  
You wonder where all the people went.

You are home, like you fought to be, like you killed for. And in the end, you killed in vain. Home has become alien to you.  
The people of district 3 are happy to see you, at least. They don't care about how unsettling your victory was. What they know is that their lot will be better for a while, that food will come easier. It doesn't matter at what price; all those children, including theirs, would have died anyway; might as well come with some positive side. They look at you and see a commodity, and a symbol, and really, it is rather fitting. None of you are really human anymore. Not in their eyes, and not in yours. It almost makes you feel a little better.

And then--a rushing dot of blue, voice echoing weakly in the loud mess of voices, and your body gets jerked back into reality before your mind can compute its meaning. Arms around your waist, and you remember, your _body_ remembers, warmth and anger and fear and pain. You lower your hands slowly, let them rest on the cool softness of his hair, and hope he senses the broken, desperate affection in the curve of your fingertips, not the blankness of your face. 

It's fine.

Home is something you build for those who can return.


	3. Beauty and the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaido POV this time. Set pretty much in the middle between those previous chapters.

The light hits his eyes to a deafening wave of applause and shocked gasps.  
They've seen him, all right. Drawn to Mari's magical, ethereally glittering figure, and then their eyes stumble on the darkness next to her, the almost-black skin and the thin lines of deeper, darker red barely glowing from underneath, like cracks giving them a glimpse into hell. From wonder to horror. An entire crowd of dumbasses, painted about as much as he is, all pretending to be scared of the beast paraded in front of them. Maybe they've even convinced themselves.  
The hypocrisy makes him want to puke.  
Scared of a bunch of kids with nothing to protect them except their own wits and muscles against armed guards and an entire city that can nuke them at any moment, and kill their families if they make a wrong move. Yeah right. At the end of the day, these guys are just going to go home, their little hearts still beating fast from excitement. All they have to do is look away.  
That's the difference between a hunter and someone who gets their meat from the slaughterhouse. All nicely packaged for your enjoyment. Just like them, in their pretty clothes and makeup and the contact lenses they gave him to make his eyes glow red when the light hits them.  
That's how they must have looked last year, too. Making eyes at toned muscle and the farce of a god disguise like they actually saw the one under the meat as human.  
He hates every single one of them.  
The light hits them, the grating sticky honeyed voice of that games host drawling over their names like a pervert's hand on their bodies, and there's no doubt left what he is now, the way his features have been hardened and darkened, his hair turned into an allegory of a mane, the subtle ways in which his seemingly tight clothes enhance his posture into something not quite human.  
Even the prep team known which of them will make it out. There are no innocent tales.  
And they had the gall to smile at him.  
Mari tenses next to him. He restrains the urge to take her hand. This isn't what they're all here for. They've come to see a beast. He's going to give it to them. If he can make them actually scared, if he can make sure they'll wake from their petty, pathetic lives a week, a year from now with red eyes glaring at them from the depth of their nightmares, then he'll have done something with his life.  
He can live on in their fears.

He looks up at the crowd, straightens his darkness and his fire, and bares his fangs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because Lily is awesome, [fanart of the outfits](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/104485382969/district-12s-beauty-and-beast-inspired-by-lins)


	4. Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter.

He catches up to them right as Tadashi takes the last few careful steps out of the minefield, following Mari's lighter, more assured ones.  
They should've seen it coming, really. It's a perfect place for an ambush, with the cliff wall on one side, and the poisonous forest on the other, and there's been only four of them left long enough for him to home in on them, but there's a limit to how long you can last without water, and it was the path with the least open ground.  
They'd lasted almost a week with only them and the remaining careers without getting caught. It was almost a fucking miracle.  
But miracles don't exist. Mari's steps suddenly slow in front of him, and he knows. It's make or break, no more running, no more pretending they can survive forever as long as they stay together. Someone is going to have to die, and he'd rather be doing the killing.  
"Tadashi." Mari's voice is steady, of _course_ it fucking is, she's been better than him at this entire thing. Maybe not at killing, but at keeping her head cool, at noticing things before him, at keeping them safe when just gutting someone won't cut it. And even in _that_ she wasn't far behind him. "Fall back. He can't move as fast as you in there."  
"And leave you with him. Yeah right." He takes the last step towards safe ground and moves to her side, crouching slightly near her left hand so she can freely move the machete in her right.  
" _Tadashi--_ "  
"All he's got to do is throw a stone after he's taken care of you and detonate something. I'll take my chances here."  
At least the guy doesn't have a ranged weapon. Tadashi's not sure _where_ the damn district gets its Careers, because if _he_ 's a problem child, this kid is more of a monster than he ever was. He's seen him kill, on the first day. Close and personal, a slice across the throat from behind that last too long to be safe or practical when you still have about twenty kids out for your blood. This guy enjoys killing, and his knife's like an extension of his arm, and the only positive point that Tadashi sees in all this is that at least he looks too attached to it to throw.  
And to top it off, he's not even rushing them, just strolling towards them like a cat with a pair of mice, and that's what pisses him off the most, because _he is not prey_. He refuses to be. He refused to be for the capitol, he's not going to be for this sick mess of an angelic blond with a blood hobby.  
Whoever attacks first in a fight almost always loses unless they can end it with the first blow, and he knows it. But like hell he's going to let him circle him and Mari and cut off their escape without fighting back.

He darts to the side and forward, chest and hips low, picking up speed as he angles back towards the guy. It's mostly a feint, but even as he prepares to dodge the counter-attack, his brain tunnels towards the simplest, most essential thought.  
_Grab the knife._  
Instead of turning towards him, the guy kicks sand and dirt into his face, and makes for Mari.

It takes him a second to react, and by then it's already too late. By the time he's shielded his face, the other's already locked blade to blade with Mari. He makes a little approving noise and disengages, and Mari catches him again before he can stab her, from underneath this time.  
She's good, she's _fast_ , but her footing is already weakening under the weight.  
Tadashi rolls and swipes at his legs with his foot, forcing him back fast enough that Mari can free herself and take a step back.  
"Not bad for a couple of scrawny kids from the twelfth. I thought _you_ were a nurse in training or something. Handy with a scalpel?"  
Who the hell has time for banter in a fight like this? The casualness, the confidence makes his skin crawl. He uses the respite to stand up (the fact that this guy just _lets_ him makes it even worse) and steps back next to Mari. Back to square one, and both of them already winded. Great.

It's Mari who comes forward this time, before he can react, and this time she's wrapped the scarf from her waist around her free hand like a glove. The guy stops her, almost twists his arm to bury his blade into her stomach, but Tadashi's moved already, grabbed it and pulled it back, trying to lock it so Mari can stab. His foot slips from under him; caught at his own game. He stumbles, tries to keep his opponent falling with him, but the next hit is an elbow to his stomach, and he's falling flat on his back, catching himself just fast enough to see Mari kicked away too, a spinning hit to her hipbone. And then he's on her before Tadashi can do anything, but she's grabbed the edge of his knife through the scarf and keeping it from her throat, barely. She cries out--a twisted hand and her machete falls to the ground, her legs slowly losing their footing.  
He jumps forward and tackles the guy to the ground, winces as his head collides with the other's face, feels himself being rolled on his back--and uses the momentum to keep rolling with a snarl. Away from Mari and the extra weapon. He twists the guy's free hand, lets himself be rolled again, and feels the knife cut into him as he comes back on top, his weight used against him.  
"Motherfu--"  
He growls and presses _down_ , into the blade, crushes the hand holding it between them, and almost laughs when his opponent cries in pain (yeah, how's _that_ feel, asshole), but there's no time even for a desperate, nervous laugh. He lets himself be pushed, just enough--gotta keep moving, gotta keep it _natural_ or he'll be busted. Falls on his back, wraps his legs around the guy's waist and heaves, screams as the knife bites deeper into him, and pushes back up again, just on time to have his hand jerked free and get punched, to the side and back into submission. His legs keep them anchored. He pulls, again, makes a mad grab for the hand releasing the knife, and rolls to the side, once, twice. Crashes on his back again.  
Hears the faint click somewhere around his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for anyone confused by my shoddy writing, [art of the aftermath](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/104673272494/in-the-minutes-she-allows-herself-before-she). (Warning for blood and character death)


	5. Redox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Team Yuzu

By the time they made their way back to the high ground surveying Yuzu's trap, the still sizzling body was already being pulled into the hovercraft.  
"This is still totally unfair," Jack complained next to Atsuro's shoulder. "They could at least leave us the bodies."  
"Huh? Why?"  
Disposing of them themselves sounded worse to him, not to mention the possible water poisoning if they left them around for too long--  
"I'm hungry."  
Atsuro blinked. Looked down. Stared.  
"... what? It's true. It's not like it'd change anything for _them._ " He sighed. And--oh god, he was pouting, to boot. Sometimes Atsuro wondered how much of the cute demeanour was calculated to get their guard down. "I can cut up a calf. How different can a human be?"  
"Oh my gooood, I am _not_ having this conversation." Yuzu stood up, exposing herself more recklessly than Atsuro liked. She looked down at the ground below. "I hope they didn't pull up too much of the wires. I can reuse some of this stuff."  
"Want me to go check? I can run fastest if there's someone down there."  
"... yeah, thanks, Frosty." And after a pause: "You get extra rations tonight."  
Jack grinned to his ears and dropped from the small ledge, heading towards the relative cover of the bushes to make his way down to the remains of the trap.  
"Off we go-ho~"

Atsuro thought back to Naoya, his not-quite-blank-enough face the night before the evaluations.  
_Do you know the real trick to winning the games, Atsuro? Not merely staying alive. Actually winning._  
This kid actually just might win. He tried hard not to think about what that meant for them.

The hovercraft's claws, as it happened, _had_ severed one of the cables as it dug under the body, something Yuzu had grumbled about for a while, but the rest of her gear was otherwise unharmed. They decided to set a few on the main paths to their general area of influence. If they were lucky, the other tributes wouldn't know _how_ the girl had died. The same trick could work several times.  
The only problem was--  
"Generators," Yuzu sighed. "The gamemasters are stingy assholes."  
Atsuro sat down next to her.  
"I think that's the point. They're just giving us enough supplies to make it interesting. We're supposed to show off our skills, but if it gets too efficient, that cuts down on the spectacle."  
"Urgh, give me a break."  
"Can't you make some?" Midori asked. "Like handmade batteries you learn about in school?"  
"... maybe. But I'm shit at chemistry. And we need a lot of power."  
"I can try," Atsuro said. "Maybe we can scavenge the reagents."  
"Is it worth risking the trip?"  
"Who knows. Maybe it'll draw them into the open. Now, whether _that_ 's a good or bad thing..."  
"... we'll go tomorrow." She smiled at him. "Nothing to lose, right?"  
He chuckled bitterly. They had everything to lose. But did that count when you were gonna lose it anyway?

Midori put the finishing touches on the trap's camouflage and stuffed her materials back into her bag.  
Atsuro stared at the inconspicuous, innocent, lethal spot. It always made him uncomfortable.  
"So, where are we camping tonight?" she asked.  
Atsuro considered their options.  
"... the forest, probably. The cave is out, we can't let Keisuke find us."  
"I say let him come," Yuzu hissed. Atsuro pretended not to hear.  
"So hammocks? We're easy targets on the ground."  
He nodded.  
"Sounds good, if you can do it."  
She gave a small, nervous laugh.  
"Yeah it's fine. Gotta make myself useful somehow."  
He bit the inside of his lip. You don't need to be useful to be allowed to live, he wanted to tell her.  
But he knew just as well as her that right now, in this place, he'd be lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once more, [cool fanart](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/104707704884/the-alliance-of-sweet-hats-and-ponytails) of team Hats And Ponytails.


	6. Seedlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Kaido POV.  
> HE'S ALIVE IN MY HEART

Kresnik looked as serious, well kept, and well adjusted as Tadashi remembered him from the videos and the few public appearances he'd seen.  
He'd disliked the guy on sight, and now he was finding it hard not to hate him.  
 _He's not your enemy_ , he tried to remind himself. _He's here to help.  
Yeah, right._  
He had everything of the Capitol's glow, the health and luxury and muscles that grew in pretty ways instead of the subtly misshapen mess men developed in the mines, but none of the capitol's frills and excesses and clashing colours. The best of both worlds.  
He was dangerous, Tadashi thought, and couldn't help but think, with petty bitterness, that maybe this was why he had won where his brother had not.

Kresnik looked at them in silence, and finally sighed.  
"I never really hoped to have volunteers... but I thought that if any came along, they would be the kind who trained for it. Not something like this." He shook his head. "You two are the last kids I expected or wanted to see here."  
Tadashi sneered.  
"I _am_ ready."  
"That's what worries me." He sighed again, and then nodded towards the chairs, moving to the other side of the table to take one of his own. Mari sat. Tadashi hesitated for a second, then finally followed suit. "What were you even trying to accomplish?"  
They stayed silent. They'd fucked up, all right. He should have known Mari would try to pull this.  
Not that it would've changed anything if he'd known. There was no way Tadashi would have let her go in alone.  
Mari finally spoke, voice quiet but firm, looking up at Kresnik with the kind of cold, firm eyes she had when fixing people's bloody messes.  
"The Games are just the beginning."  
That shut him up. His eyes homed in on her face, narrowing a little. Then on Tadashi's. Then back on hers.  
 _Yeah, that's right. Don't underestimate us._  
A long, tense moment passed. Kresnik kept watching them, like a hunter looking for a weak point. Tadashi kept his eyes straight, his jaw painfully tight.  
Finally, he closed his eyes, a look of resignation on his face.

He opened them again.  
"... I hope you know we're starting off at a disadvantage. The other districts are better trained, better supplied. You won't be able to count on a lot of gifts, not from the district anyway. I'm popular enough to get some support from Capitol viewers, but even that has its limits. The 12th doesn't attract masses."  
Mari nodded.   
"We know."  
Of course they knew. They'd seen how things went last year. Whatever 'support' Kresnik had gotten his brother, it wasn't enough.  
"... I've tried for fourteen years, and never managed to get us another win. No matter how much I tell you about how _I_ won, in the end, it won't work unless you find your own style and let it carry you to the end of the Games." The side of his face twitched into a small frown, but he got it back under control almost before Tadashi could see it. "I will say this, though. I will do everything in my power to make sure one of you makes it through. I owe it to the three of you."  
That made Tadashi blink.   
He couldn't trust him. All his nice words couldn't bring his brother back. It didn't _matter_ if he felt he 'owed' him something. He was dead.  
But at least he wasn't being all cutesy like those Capitol assholes, or pretending this was fun and games. He wasn't pretending they could both make it out alive. He was taking them seriously, and Tadashi could respect him for that, at least.  
Next to him, Mari tensed, but her face stayed as determined as ever.  
Kresnik looked at them and nodded.  
"... and one last thing. _Both_ of you." He lowered his voice a little. "If you make it, you will have my support for whatever comes after that. That is my promise to you."


	7. Phantom Limbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obvious Catching Fire parallels go here.

He wakes up with a hand around his throat and the fire of cut skin on his cheek.  
Dark, silent, suffocating air, locking down his throat now like that hand had then, and he squeezes his eyes shut because the blow's coming any moment now, it's coming down and he's finally going to die because he's too weak, too naive, too trusting--coming down and he can feel his muscles flexing on top of him, carrying the weight of the blade--coming down and he can still see his face through closed eyelids--coming down--  
\--down...  
He sobs, and the sharp heave in his chest breaks the image, if not the sensations. His neck is still pressed, squeezed, but at least all his eyelids show him is the void.  
Keisuke's dead.  
He tries to wrap his head around the concept, to unravel those fingers around his throat, push his ghost away. But all that brings is his face again, the arrow in his chest, the way he stumbled before a second one lodged itself inside his neck. How the shock of that one, fired almost at point blank, had jerked him back with a sickening splatter of blood.  
Atsuro bites into his hand.  
The pain is good. The pain is real. The pain hadn't been there, then, not on his hand, and that at least allows him to focus, just a little.  
Calm down, Atsuro. He's dead--no, don't think about that--he's _gone_ , you're safe, it's not the arena anymore. See, your face isn't cut, the sun isn't shining, there's nothing around your... neck...

He gets up abruptly, chest still moving hurriedly. He needs air. Or as much air as he can get underground, anyway. They're not supposed to leave their rooms at night, but he won't be any good tomorrow if he spends the night choking and crying alone in his room.  
He needs air.

He slips on his shoes, pulls a jacket over his shoulders, and steps out.  
In the corridors, he can hear a faint humming, lighting and ventilation that never completely turns off. It feels like home, in a way. He used to always have his Frankenstein's creature of a computer running, even when he went to sleep, compiling into the night. The soft hum of the fan and buzz of the electricity running through the mismatched components were his own personal lullaby, rocking him to sleep when there was no one left to do so.  
He wonders if there's anything left of his house now. There have been a lot of searches and destruction, he hears, and he has no doubt district three was hit the hardest, along with maybe the 12th.  
He didn't even get to save his work, now he thinks about it. He'd asked Naoya to get if it he died, but Naoya had been in the capitol with them ever since the reaping.  
The thought hits him like a kick to the chest. Losing his work made him feel more homeless and broken than losing his house ever could. It was the fruit of years of work, nights spent weaving code together to have some company against loneliness. And a lot of it had been made with his friends in mind. He'd even coded a few games for them to play together.  
Yuzu had worked hard on making that computer.  
She's alive. We can build a new one. You can do anything as long as you're still alive.  
Yuzu is alive, he reminds himself, and so is he, and so is _Kazuya_ , Kazuya whom they'd all buried, Kazuya whom he'd wanted to fight for. And Midori and Jack, that he'd gone into the arena thinking he might have to kill. It's not such a bad situation.  
Keisuke, though--  
Don't think about Keisuke.

He quietly walks through the corridors to a mostly secluded corner, jammed between walls with a fan whispering above. The floor is vaguely cold, but nothing is quite cold here, not like winter nights with shitty heating (one thing computers were good for), or that one night they spent in the snow in the arena (he still wants to know how they pulled that microclimate). He tucks himself in the corner between two walls, and takes out the notebook that never leaves his pocket, along with its pen.  
Maybe he could make them another game. A real one, a fun one, not the cruel joke the "Games" were. If he gets to work now, maybe he can get the basic engine done in a few days.  
The pages are barely visible in the low glow of the emergency lights, but he doesn't really need to see anyway.

He keeps writing in the darkness, until footsteps come his way and suddenly still.  
He looks up hurriedly, ready to give excuses, but the person looking down at him looks tired more than angry. That military officer who was with Kazuya during the operation--Izuna, right? He hasn't talked to her much, beyond general politeness and a few debriefings about the information they had on either side.  
To his surprise, she crouches in front of him. It makes him feel like a small kid--but it also feels safe, somehow. Maybe after the arena he wants to be a kid again.  
"What are you writing?"  
The gentle voice could use some work, but it's the thought that counts. Right now, the thought does wonders. He smiles at her.  
"I'm coding. It keeps me focused."  
"Don't you need a computer for that?"  
"Well, I will to test it. And to bring everything together. But at this stage, paper works fine."  
"What are you coding?"  
"Just a little game for my friends."  
He starts talking about it, explaining the concept, the basic ideas, the challenges the code is giving him. What kind of engine he needs. Izuna just listens, looking at him most of the time, at the paper every now and then, until he realises that he's gone into the kind of detail Yuzu and Kazuya would have trouble following, and interrupts himself with a sheepish smile.  
"Sorry. I just--coding helps me keep my mind off other things."  
"Are you still experiencing trauma?"  
Well, that's a blunt way of putting it, but in a way he appreciates it. Being treated neither like a broken doll nor like a loaded gun is nice.  
He nods.

There's a moment of silence, and then she sighs and moves to the wall next to him.  
"Do you mind?"  
"Go ahead." He pauses. "What are you doing up in your uniform, by the way? Patrolling?"  
"More or less.With these new arrivals, there's some tension among the population... I'm just making sure there's no shady business or infighting."  
Or spying, Atsuro's brain provides, but he keeps that thought silent. Izuna sits next to him.  
"Would talking help?"  
"I'm not sure." He looks down at his notebook. Somehow, now that he has loosened his focus, just trying to read it in such dim light makes him dizzy. "... I had a close call in the arena. Well, several of them, but one in particular. It was someone I trusted, and I--" His chest contracts and he pauses, trying to keep his shaky breath under control. "... sometimes it feels like he's still trying."  
Izuna looks at him, scrutinising his face.  
"You trusted him even though you knew you'd have to kill each other?"  
"Yes. He saved me on the first day, you know? And his plan--he didn't want to kill anyone. His plan was to stay out of trouble as long as possible and force the Capitol's hand into throwing stuff at us to end the games artificially, to make them look out of control. But then as time went by he started to lose hope... and then one day he decided it was all hopeless and he'd do us a favour by killing us all instead of watching us struggle." He chuckles, dizzily and dismissively. "Maybe he was right, after all. I never stood a chance. My heart was much too weak. I couldn't help but trust them, because they were good people. Even if they did plan to kill me someday."  
And in the end, he hadn't been able to kill him either. It had been Midori who had to dirty her hands. Killing a stranger had been hard enough, but taking the life of someone he knew? It was too much for him, apparently.  
Maybe Keisuke's idea really had been merciful.  
Slowly, he lowers his head against his knees, and wonders, again, why he's still alive.  
Not being alive sounds kinda good, right now. Except it'd make everyone sad. They didn't get Kazuya back to lose someone else.  
"You're feeling so bad because you weren't able to kill someone?"  
"Yes and no." He turns his head to look at her, cheek still pressed against his knees. "I did kill someone else, once. I feel terrible about that, too, but I don't even think about it most of the time; it's like my brain blanked all emotions out, and that makes me feel even _worse_. But when it was important, when Keisuke could've killed me, and then Midori, maybe even Jack and _Yuzu_ , I couldn't do it. My weakness could have cost them their lives." It hurts, to think about it. He hides his face in his knees again. "I can't stop thinking maybe I should have died there. I'm no use to anyone, especially not Yuzu."  
A moment of silence. Izuna fidgets slightly--trying to find the right words, maybe. It stretches around them, thick and heavy--and Atsuro realises with relief that it's finally overcome the ghosts in his senses. All he feels is the dark, the stillness, and the comforting hum above him. Izuna's body at his side.  
It reminds him of when he was little, of him and Kazuya and Yuzu falling asleep next to Naoya's desk in a pile when he was babysitting them, before he began to teach them. Before he left for the first time.  
"... You were not the most suited for the Games. That much is true, probably. Or, to be more precise, you were not equipped to be a victor." He chuckles, but she continues. "That doesn't mean you are useless. Not even in the arena, but definitely not outside of it."  
"What do you mean?"  
"The way Yuzu and Midori tell it, your skills were essential to your group's survival. You might not have been able to win on your own, but they probably wouldn't have either, if you hadn't been there to help them."  
"... thanks."  
She shifts, and carefully rests a hand on his head. He tenses, at first, but lets himself relax--no one is trying to kill him here, or those that do will have to get through thick walls first.  
"The truth is, we need people like you. We have enough soldiers. We have people who are ready to kill. Too eager to kill, in some cases. But you can't rebuild a country with soldiers. People like you, who keep their empathy even in these circumstances, are the ones we need to rebuild. Otherwise, we'll just end up making a different version of the capitol."  
It's almost praise, the same kind of unstated _expectations_ that always made him feel warm when it came from Naoya. He finds himself blushing just a little.  
"You probably don't want to hand power to kids who can randomly have flashbacks in the middle of a meeting, though."  
"You'll heal." She lets go of his head, and he straightens a little to look back at her. "You will heal, and so will your friends." She pauses. "In fact... I think that's where you can help most."  
"Healing?"  
"You got hurt because you kept your empathy and emotions. Some of your friends locked theirs up in order to survive. They'll need help finding them again."  
He thinks of Yuzu, fierce and powerful and led by cold anger, and the girl she was before the games, before Kazuya disappeared.  
Maybe there's a reason he lives, after all.  
"... I'll keep that in mind."  
"Good."  
"... hey, Izuna?"  
"Yes?"  
"Why did you become a soldier?"  
She looks at him, startled. Frowns... and then finally gives him a side smile.  
"I wanted to be worth something, just like you. It just happened that this is where I had any skills at all."  
"You're good at more than fighting."  
"Yes, I know that now. And it's part of why I'm staying." She pats his head again, and this time he's the one smiling. "We need more feelings in general, even in the army."


	8. Apoptosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before chapter 5  
> Someone take Atsuro Kihara out of this au

Yuzu brushed the side of his face, washing the day's dirt from his still-fresh scab with a wet cloth. He tried his best not to hiss.  
"... are you all right?"  
He nodded, and rested a little of his weight on the hand she had on his shoulder.  
"Yeah. It just stings a little." He gave her a little smile. "I got lucky."  
"No you didn't. This shouldn't have happened at all." She pressed the cloth a bit harder against his skin, lips tight, and finally hissed between grit teeth: "I'm gonna kill him."  
"Yuzu--"  
"He almost _killed_ you, Atsuro. And we'll have to eventually anyway."  
"He saved me."  
"That was days ago. It's not a miracle free pass. 'Oh hey I was nice once in my life, now let me get away with any shit I do!' Not happening."  
Atsuro stayed silent. She was right. And yet he couldn't reconcile the gentle face that had pulled him out of the arena's trap and helped him fight his aggressor with the cold, almost emotionless eyes that had choked him on the ground to give him "mercy." Which one was the real Keisuke? Had his warmth been corrupted by the arena's cruelty? Or had it merely revealed the stone under his gentle exterior?  
Or maybe they really were the same person. That was, in a way, the scariest idea of them all. That humans held such potential in them.  
I'll kill him, Yuzu said. And that scared him, because he knew she would if she got the chance, and she was the one who would have to live with it. And he couldn't be there to help her with it.  
 _There's still Naoya. As long as we can get her through, they'll still have each other. If we plan properly, they won't be able to make her lose without it looking too suspicious at this point.  
He needs her too. He needs to know all he did since he left for the games wasn't completely useless._  
"... Atsuro?"  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."  
She just looked at him for a few seconds. And then, before he had time to register what was happening, she had moved and pressed her lips to his, a short, fleeting kiss, both hesitant and determined.  
She had already pulled back by the time he blinked, and finally brought his hand up to touch his lips. He felt a little dizzy.  
"Yuzu, I--"  
"I'm sorry."  
Her voice was quiet and sad, the most vulnerable he'd seen her since she'd last wiped away her tears, the night after the parade. It sewed his mouth right up.  
"I'm sorry," she continued, "I know I shouldn't have, but I just... I just..."  
She wiped angrily at her eye.   
"I wanted to for a long time, you know? But I didn't because--because I liked Kazuya too and I'm not supposed to get you both, right? And you were my best friends--I didn't want--I didn't _think_ \--" She sobbed. "And then Kazuya died and I wouldn't have had to choose but... it just felt _wrong_... and now... now you're..." She laughed, a bitter, desperate bubble of it, and there were actual tears in her eyes now. "I didn't want to lose my friends... and now I'm losing them anyway."  
"Yuzu..."  
"I don't even care about that anymore, I just--" She shook her head. "I'm not like Midori--or Keisuke before he turned into a psycho. I don't care about revolution. I don't _care_ about the capitol. I just want things to go back to normal. I want to be back home in district three. I want to be with you and build stuff together and laugh about dumb things. I want Kazuya to be with us and force us to drink tea. I want Naoya to smile like he did before _he_ got sent here." Her chest jerked, and he wasn't sure whether it was a sob or a laugh. "But I can't have that, can I? I can't have any of that."  
She looked down, avoiding his startled eyes.  
"... I don't want you to die."  
He had wanted to try and console her. But the words jammed into his throat at her last words, bitter and nauseating like so much bile, rising from his stomach with a wave of guilt.  
What could he even say that wouldn't be a lie?  
"It's not fair. They already took Kazuya from us, and Naoya's not much better, and now _you_!--you go and almost _let_ him kill you like you're not worth protecting, and I wasn't even _there_ to protect you when you won't, and how am I--how am I supposed to keep you _safe_?"  
She pressed closer to him. He caught her, still dazed by her outburst, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her face against his shoulder. He swallowed, and gently buried his fingertips into her hair.  
"I don't know what to do."  
 _There's nothing you_ can _do_.  
He stayed silent. There was nothing he could give her, except the warmth of his body, for now. No matter how much his own feelings echoed, voicing them now would only be cruel.

And quietly, guiltily, in the corner of his mind, he found relief and solace that even through her pain, even through her love, nowhere in her distressed outburst had she considered losing.


	9. Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, Naoya, and the price of victory.  
> WARNINGS FOR SEXUAL AND EMOTIONAL ABUSE, _from the pov of the abuser_ , which means _his_ narration will be enthusiastic about it. No sexual acts take place, but please proceed with caution.

The girl on the screen staggers and falls, and Loki has to refrain a laugh.  
They've all tried so hard. For almost two weeks they've tried to keep the attention on the kids actually fighting each other, on the groups that broke apart way earlier than they usually do (without really showing why), on the drama. They've tried to find ways to explain why kids who seemed on the sidelines were turning up dead. They framed a couple of his kills as actually happening but barely relevant. And yet, despite their expectations, no one had killed him yet. So they started panicking and messing with the arena. Cutting power to some areas (well, they _should_ , having their own systems hijacked to create traps or fuck with the arena's patterns is a damn disgrace, and he loves the kid for it) to undermine his preparations. Triggering surprise attacks of the murderous bugs they cooked up. Dropping the other survivors mystery parcels that no one really commissioned.  
But now their only other candidate just fell, because no one ever thought someone would think to _pluck every single edible berry from the area and leave only the poisonous ones on the scrubs_. It's pure, patient, tedious genius and he _loves_ it.  
Minegishi steps from behind the boulder he's been hiding under. She hears him--too late. She's throwing up all over the ground even as she tries to turn to face him, to crawl away from him.  
He raises his crossbow and shoots her right in the head.  
In the monitor room, everyone is silent. Seconds stretch with denial, with disbelief. Loki tries his best not to laugh.  
Finally, the canon sounds. He grabs a can of soda, punches it open and drinks to sweet victory before grabbing his mic.  
This is going to be _beautiful._

They give the kid about a day and half before the interview.  
It's the most they can get before people find it too weird: he didn't sustain any big injuries, aside from that slight limp, and him looking even more like a skeleton than he did when he was reaped. There's no valid excuse to keep him from the public (aside from fattening, that is), so they rush the damage control, have his stylist clean him up (no weird costumes, this time, just a basic suit that makes him look a bit less malnourished), and throw him to the wolves.  
Or, more accurately, to him.  
He's all cold defiance and cutting angles, his guard still up even now he's left the arena. Good. He'd be sad if breaking him was too easy. He put such high hopes in him, too.  
"So, Naoya, the last time you sat here with me, did you think you'd actually be sitting here again a couple of weeks later?"  
It's a trick question, of course. He knows the kid actually expected to win. _Somehow_. But seeing him again, after the way he poked at his wounds last time, is probably the last thing on his wishlist.  
He puts on a rather convincing quiet, almost sheepish face.  
"I admit I hadn't thought ahead that far. I was just focused on surviving."  
Winning, not surviving. And that's what made the difference.  
"Really? For such a careful planner as you, that seems awfully shortsighted."  
"It's a matter of priorities."  
Well played. Loki gives him a genuine smile, bends just a bit too close for comfort.  
"And now that you've won, what's the first feeling on your mind?"  
"Relief."  
_How ironically innocent._ On guard, but not quite aware, then. He's stepped from the frying pan into the fire, and that hasn't registered yet.  
"Well, you can be relieved all over again. Let's see a little recap of your performance."

It's an uncomfortable moment for everyone. During the games, they never gave him much attention, in the hopes that someone would actually kill him before they have to (they should have done it straight away). Now, though, no matter how much they try, they _have_ to show every single of his kills, one way or another. And that's when the story of the lonely kid who stayed mostly out of trouble and made a comeback at the last minute doesn't add up.  
Because he has thirteen kills. In the entire history of the hunger games, he almost holds the record, and the one who holds the title was a brutal killing machine, who got such a high count because several of his last competitors tried to join up to take him down and all died in the confrontation. But Naoya killed them one by one.  
At least, two of those don't get credited to him. Making temporary teammates kill each other through careful baiting and treachery doesn't count, and those deaths are shown as a story of their own, the drama of an alliance that started so well and fell apart tragically through the seeds of distrust planted by the games.  
But even with eleven, the crowd is uncharacteristically quiet. They're uncomfortable, a little freaked out by this thin, pale, closed-down kid sitting in front of them.  
And Naoya himself knows. He knows how much blood he actually has on his hands. And as the video plays on, his face grows paler, his jaw tighter.  
Ah, Loki thinks with a little thrill. Not so cold after all.  
He sees him reach at his neck, finger the little pendant that somehow made it through the games. And his eyes grow colder again, his face blank, his body almost relaxed.  
Safe, and remorseless. Or almost, anyway.  
Maybe he's found the key.

He uses his charms to keep Naoya in the city a little longer. Let his district prepare his arrival properly! He's barely been out of the arena for three days, after all. And besides, he finds the kid interesting.  
Some of them understand. No one challenges him. Naoya isn't very popular, after all. Who cares what he does, what happens to him, as long as he's no longer up there making them uncomfortable.  
And he starts swinging by the training center, now deserted aside from the remains of district three's team.  
He finds flimsy excuses the first couple of times. More interviews, for his mentor, for his stylist (who, honestly, has to be commended for his work, even though it was kind of hideous; getting such a weird case as Naoya and managing to pull up something vaguely fitting was an accomplishment in itself), but then, it's him he homes in on, and by the second time, it's obvious this isn't an actual interview anymore. Just uncomfortable questions, and a door closed behind them.  
He looks like a cornered, wounded predator, all his angles sharpened with tension, his eyes sharp like bared fangs. But unlike an animal, he knows a desperate charge is out of the question. He still has consequences to face.  
"Oh, don't be such a bore. I'm your number one fan, you know?"  
"And just what brought me that honour?"  
Still sharp. And quick-learning, but there's little his loaded questions can do when there are no _witnesses_. For once, the camera would have been his ally.  
"You're interesting."  
And this time, he makes no effort to hide the hunger in his eyes, the smile on his face. He talks quietly, comfortably; Naoya tenses, but doesn't move. There is nowhere to run to. This encounter ends when Loki wants it, how Loki wants it, and praying cooperation will buy him scraps of mercy is the only course he has.  
"I saw it from the beginning, you know? You're smart, too smart. You don't think like the others. You hunted them all down because you knew that was the best way to win. You gave the gamemakers the finger, not because you wanted to revolt, but just because it was useful to you at the time. You do know they're going to hate you for that, right?"  
"What do you want?"  
He smiles.  
"Like I said... I'm your number one fan."  
One casual step closer, two, and ah, it's so obvious that the kid _gets_ it, he knows where this is headed. There's that angry, scared look in his eyes, and his hand almost flies up to his neck--but he stops it halfway. Loki doesn't call attention to it. All in good time.  
"Popularity is everything, here, you know?" He catches a strand of his hair (was he born like that? He always wondered. A freak from birth, or side effects from illness, maybe. It makes him, in a way, all the more fragile and attractive) and smiles. "You're a smart boy, Naoya. You know it's dangerous to disappoint your public."  
He's got him, he's almost got him. If he _forced_ now, he knows Naoya wouldn't resist, that he'd just blank it out of his mind like he did the lives of his fellow tributes, back at his victory interview.  
But he's still got a card to play. He pulls back, and smiles sweetly, and gives him a "think about it," and turns towards the door, leaving Naoya standing there with shaky breath and a streak of glitter on his hair and cheek.

He gives him a day of false security and comes back.  
He looks vaguely less emaciated by now, but the dark circles under his eyes haven't faded. If anything, they look deeper.  
And his nerves, the reflexes of the arena have returned. Every muscle of his body is tense, strung, and he senses Loki cross the roof towards him before he announces himself.  
"Nice evening, isn't it?"  
He ignores Naoya's glare and walks to his side, leans against the railing. The sweetest, most conversational smile.  
"I was worried about you, so I came to check on you. I thought you might come visit, but you never showed up, so I _had_ to make sure you were doing fine."  
"Why would I ever do that?"  
"Oh, you have plenty of reasons to. But mostly because I'm your best friend here."  
The kid lets out a strangled chuckle of disbelief. And then another one, closer to a sigh, his eyes flitting down to the railing, to the city beyond. Loki wonders if he's ever wanted to jump.  
It hurts because it's actually true.  
"I'm not exactly planning on staying," he murmurs.  
So he's still got hope, then. That he'll be let off the hook. Look meek enough, humble enough, and you'll be overlooked. Such a difference from the cold killer in the arena.  
And yet, both are the same, and Loki knows the key to it.  
"Ah, yes, you've got people at home waiting for you, don't you? You're a lucky one." He grins and reaches towards Naoya's neck, takes the small, jarringly cute little cat between his fingers. Naoya starts, twists, almost lashes at him--but stops cold. Good. He's still smart.  
Loki turns the ornament between his fingers. "It's amazing you managed to hold on to this all this time. That string looked kind of flimsy. I thought for sure the sweat and blood would have burned through it." He looks up at Naoya's eyes and smiles. "It looks cute on you. So misleading. A cute little cat for a cold killer."  
That makes him react, a flash of anger that he barely swallows down. He wants to lash back, he can see it by the set of his shoulders, but with Loki's hand on his token there's nothing he can do. He can recognise a threat when he sees one.  
"Even when you were reaped, you were so cold and emotionless. And there your little brother looked all ready to step up for you." A smile. "He looks like a sweet kid. I bet he'd have no trouble making _friends_ here. Though that probably wouldn't have been enough in the arena. It's a good thing it was someone as cold as you in there, wasn't it? Someone who'll do _anything_ to win."  
And there it is, finally, not just fear but terror, in his eyes, in the shallow movements of his chest under Loki's hand.  
_Bingo_.  
He brings his fingers to brush along his jaw. There's nothing stopping him now. His little brother can't protect him if he's too busy sacrificing himself for his sake.  
_Too bad, kid. He's mine._  
"You're going to have to come back here, Naoya. Don't forget that. And when you do, you're going to need friends. You can't get sponsors if everyone hates you, and you'll have more lives in the balance this time." He trails his fingertips all the way to his chin. Tilts it up. "You really shouldn't disappoint your number one fan."  
Kisses him.  
It's not much of a kiss, at least not if he was going for anything romantic or sensual. But there's still something arousing about the absolute stillness under his lips, the way the kid keeps even his breath locked in, as if his very air will be poisoned if his breath touches Loki's skin, about the rigid freeze of his shoulders, the subtle, so subtle shaking in his chest. Fear. Fear and disgust, and self-loathing probably close on their tracks.  
He makes it last.  
_Learn to breathe, Naoya. You can only last for so long._  
He pulls back, releases his chin, but keeps his grip on the necklace. Naoya's eyes are fixed on the ground, to the side. Wide open, still; he didn't close them.  
"Looking away isn't very friendly, you know." He brushes a finger up his chest as Naoya's eyes snap back up. "I know you can do better than that."  
_And you'll do it, too, won't you? You're that desperate to go home. You've killed all these kids to go home, and now everyone is hating you for it, the capitol, probably the people in your district too. The arena taught you killing was the only way to be allowed to live. And now you're out, you're going to learn that even killing won't save you. Won't save those you love. There's nothing you can do, except pray for a scrap of our mercy. And maybe sell bits of the little you have left in exchange for it._  
_Waking up from the illusion of control is such an interesting feeling, isn't it?_  
He could have him do anything. Fuck him right there with the noise and light of the capitol around him. Get him down on his knees to suck him off (his hands in that white hair, it'd be such a treat). Take him back down to bed and poison him with a travesty of romanticism.  
He doesn't. There's no need.  
All he has to do is ask, and that's enough. The fear, the uncertainty, the vertigo are far better drugs than any fucking, and the moment he makes the kid submit to him, he loses that edge, that threat.  
Better keep him like that, knowing that he _would_ give himself if asked, never knowing when it will come. Better wait and see, if he'll one day break and come to his door of his own accord.  
After all, the capitol is big, and he is Naoya's best and only friend. And he has years of games ahead of him.  
He tilts his chin again, moves close enough for their breaths to mix, and whispers.  
"Remember, my door is always open."  
And he releases him and turns, walking towards the elevator.  
"I'll see you around."

 

"It's a shame about the boy."  
It's been a year since Naoya's first games, and when Loki first saw him again, six months after his rather short and uneventful victor's tour, he looked somewhat healthier. Thin, but not skeletal. Tired and suspicious, but not raw.  
Not so much now.  
"In case you can't see it, I'm trying to _work_ , he hisses, gathering footage of the barely broadcast girl's ingenuity, her long trecks through the forest gathering survival equipment almost from scratch. She does seem like a resourceful one. Naoya probably has a soft spot for her; he's always liked bright, smart kids.  
"You still think she stands a chance? She was smart enough to run at the start," unlike her unfortunate co-tribute, "but no matter how long she survives, she's going to have to fight at one point. You can't keep running forever."  
And Naoya knows it. He didn't win by running away. He stayed hidden as much as he could, but from the very first second, he was a hunter, a stalker, not prey in the woods.  
And now it's turning on him, because Loki can see from the tense lines on his face that his sponsor gathering isn't going well.  
"My money's on the Angel, personally. She looked too depressed to be a threat on tv, but there's something dangerous about her." He smiles. "And I'm usually right. I was for you."  
"Isn't slowing down a tribute's mentor against the rules?"  
Ah, he's almost white with rage now. Good.  
"Oh, right. Well, in that case, let me apologise with a little present." He takes out his phone, and directs a rather large deposit towards district three's game account. Naoya stares at him with lowered brows, then gets a notification on his screen. Looks down. Stares.  
"No strings attached," Loki hums.  
This time, Naoya's eyes are entirely suspicious, and tinted with some of the disgust he'd shown a year ago, when he'd just realised he wasn't above giving Loki what he wanted.  
"I mean it! I wouldn't want to think my distracting you led to someone's death, after all. I'm just trying to _help_ you." He bends closer over Naoya's desk, catches his chin in his hand, runs his thumb over his lips. Speaks again, dangerously close. "What are friends for, right?" Naoya looks ready to throw up, but he knows better than to pull back. "Go on. Take this, and save her. If you can." He straightens, and smooths some of Naoya's hair back into place, smiling at the way fallen glitter makes it look almost silver, magical. Looks him straight in the eye and grins. "Show me how interesting you can make _these_ games."

 

The boy with blue hair walks up to his seat. He's shorter than his brother--rounder, too. But there's something in the way he stands and walks that reminds him of Naoya in the arena, of the set of his shoulders when he released that last bolt.  
He sits, and his face looks almost casual, but his eyes, his eyes are piercing.  
_This one will be harder to break. Too bad they won't let him live._  
Not quite piercing enough, though. So, Naoya didn't tell him everything after all.  
He smiles, at this bright boy and all his strength that can't save him, can't protect anymore.  
"So, Kazuya, right? I'm a big fan of your brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, [artwork](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/105431838294/the-moment-a-tribute-becomes-a-victor-part-2) by the creator of the au! (Don't forget to check out their own chapters for the AU, since they give some essential elements of plot and relationships. You can find them in this fic's related works)  
> [Bonus](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/104946580129/i-wonder-how-many-of-your-other-duties-they-even)


	10. Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning

You stand in the middle of the well dressed, uneasy crowd, and watch the first tribute shakily make her way up the stairs.  
No one volunteers, of course. You hear a muffled sob in the background, but not a single voice rising to protest or take her place. The young man who replaced their usual escort congratulates her, and she swallows a sob to look at the crowd, biting her lip but looking on with a hint of defiance.  
Maybe she'll live a few days, you think. She'd looked shy and unassuming, with her pale brown braids and her large glasses, but spirit is just as important as strength in the arena, and she seems to have more than people would expect. You find yourself hoping for her victory. It'd be nice to have a new victor, for once.  
You're so caught up in thought that you almost don't hear them call your name.  
"Naoya Minegishi."  
It takes you a second, because at first you don't quite register that they're calling you, _why_ they're calling you, and suddenly your brain catches up and you almost laugh because really? Really? It feels unreal and grotesque, the way your life is suddenly ending, and you didn't even pay attention.  
The escort almost calls it again, but the crowd has moved to isolate you, and before you can take a step forward a voice rings out through the plaza.  
" _No!_ "  
You wince. There's a commotion at your back, and you can hear your parents' voices now, worried cries of _Kazuya, no_ , the sound of struggle. You swallow and walk towards the podium and the girl who shoots you a sullen look.  
Behind you, the movement has died down, but not the noise.  
" _Naoya!_ "  
You keep your face blank. Even as you climb the steps and turn, as your eyes finally see him in the crowd, trying to reach out to you, you simply grit your teeth. There is nothing he can do, and you're grateful for it.  
It still hurts, though. He's stopped crying out, but you can still see the desperation on his face as the district mayor reads out the Treaty of Treason. They should just shoo you out of sight. Remove you from the stage, from the eyes of your loved ones. But that would defeat the point, wouldn't it? It's a show. What's the point if you can't draw out every second of suffering?  
They'll probably make _him_ a show, too, you think suddenly, angrily. Reaping outbursts always come up in the interviews. It only makes your face harder, tighter. You don't want to give them this. You don't want his affection for you smeared across the screen for those morbid voyeurs and their emotional kicks. It doesn't belong to them. _He_ doesn't belong to them.  
You turn yourself to ice. Better let them think that you don't care.  
When they finally stop talking, you stare above the horizon and turn without a word.

It's when you're finally removed from the light and the crowd that it finally hits you, and you stumble with it. You're going to die. It's you against twenty three other kids, a good number of which will have trained for it. You're just a somewhat antisocial boy with a talent for code and electronics. Not exactly prime survival skills. And one of them already hates you, even though _you_ wouldn't mind as much if she won. Better her than someone else, if people at home can eat better.  
You catch your footing before you can fall, and let them talk you and walk you through what happens next. You move from one room to another, and suddenly feel overwhelmingly lonely.  
 _Better get used to it._  
It's not like it'll last long, anyway. You can deal with loneliness. It's not exactly anything new, although never that strong, that piercing. But your own coldness is hurting you now. Your chest feels fragile, brittle like so much ice.   
They sit you down in a plush chair. It takes about five seconds after they open the doors for a small, warm body to throw itself at you and tangle itself in your limbs with a cry of your name.  
Your heart defrosts, and empties into a painful puddle. You wrap arms around him, and you should care, you should worry that others are watching, that your parents are slowly making their way towards you, but you don't. You bury your face in his hair, soothe his trembling with spread palms on his back, and cling to his warmth in your arms.   
You only have a few minutes. Any moment now they'll shoo your family out, tear him out of your arms if they have to. You need to talk to him now, before it's too late. Even if you never want to leave the warmth of his hair.  
"Kazuya..."  
You call his name gently, and at first he hiccups a sob and keeps his face pressed into your shoulder, but after a nudge of your chin and another call of his name, he looks up, eyes full of rebellious determination.  
"You have to come back."  
There's no room for disagreement in his voice, and that makes you smile, despite everything. You ruffle his hair.  
"I'll try. I promise."  
He opens his mouth to say more, but your mother steps closer with a small cough. You look up at her face, and something inside you dies. She's already buried you.  
"Naoya..." The silence stretches. It's awkward more than painful, and maybe that hurts even more. She shakes her head. "You're smart. You stand a chance."  
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." At least she tried.  
Your father bends down to give you a short hug, squeezing you and Kazuya both. There are no false reassurances from him, but at least there is affection, some attempt at comfort. You appreciate it.  
Mostly, you appreciate that they do their best to hide their resentment and relief. He is only 11. It's fine.  
When he pulls back, Kazuya reaches around his neck and takes off his necklace, a round black cat head with red eyes, hanging on a pink string that's been greased so it wouldn't chafe. You remember helping him with the details. Something about a fantasy world he and Atsuro and Yuzu put together. They have something similar, if you remember right. You think Atsuro's is a bracelet.  
"That's your token," Kazuya says, sliding it around your neck with serious eyes. It's a little small, but it fits. You arrange it so it falls properly, at the front of your chest. He nods approvingly.  
At the other end of the room, the guards are signalling that your time is almost over.

You hug him tight, one last time. Press a short kiss to his forehead.  
"You take care of yourself while I'm gone, okay?  
He huffs. Looks up at you with unforgiving eyes.  
"I should be saying that to _you_."  
You smile.  
"I promise. Take care of Atsuro and Yuzu."  
He nods, and climbs off, and walks away just as they're about to be escorted out by force.  
There were tears in his eyes, but he's walking with his head held high.  
You realise you can't do this anymore.  
You have to win. You have absolutely no choice in the matter, not when you have him in your life, not when you promised him to take care of yourself. You can't disappoint him.  
You're just a scrawny sixteen year old with an unpleasant personality and a knack for electronics and logic, but somehow that will have to do. You have to win, and you have about a week to figure out how.  
You squeeze the little cat in your hand, and wonder if anyone else will even show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you know why Loki legitimately saw Kazuya as a rival (he's not wrong)


	11. Controlled burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspended in the midst of the raid on the capitol, Mari and Naoya encounter an old "friend."  
> Warnings for implied abuse, gore and torture

The atmosphere in the building is tense, claustrophobic--there's not much anyone can do now it's on lockdown, aside from Atsuro's team still guiding the attack and assassination teams with the info stolen from the systems--but it's nothing compared to the one in the room as you and Naoya step in and let the door close behind tyou.  
"Did you really expect a door with an electronic lock to keep me out?" Naoya asks in a tone that sounds almost disappointed.  
"It's not like I had many other options. One door is better than none, since you uncivilised people wouldn't let us out peacefully when you took over."  
"Ah, yes, forgive me. Being locked in with people who want to kill you is such a barbaric thing, isn't it?"  
Loki gives the little snort of someone who concedes a point. You think you see an edge of fear in his eyes, but it's gone before you can catch it, like a flash of light on the glitter woven into his hair.  
He looks back up, straight at Naoya, and smiles, and something about that smile makes your stomach turn.  
"I didn't expect you to come to me of your own accord, though."  
It's then, as you see the tension between them, the understanding, the sordid intimacy, that you finally understand Naoya's reality behind the few words he had grudgingly given you on the subject.  
It's then that you understand how much it matters that he had been singled out.  
Naoya speaks, and his voice is soft, a timbre you've only heard him use with his brother, but poisoned by something both vulnerable and nauseating.  
"Oh, don't worry. It's the first and the last time."  
Loki looks at him, suddenly a bit colder, and then turns his sweet face towards you.  
"What about you, sweetheart? Just what brings you here to see me? Surely you don't have any reason to hate me. The way I led your interviews really made you popular and boosted your chances, you know."  
"Oh yes, I'm very grateful." You keep your voice conversational and pleasant, the same tone you've been practising ever since you set foot on the train all those years ago, the tone that's been your weapon and armour ever since you stepped out of the arena and your machete stopped being any use. "I'm so grateful that you made sure, from the beginning, that _I_ would be the one to win."  
He blinks. Looks at you. Suddenly laughs, with an edge of disbelief.  
"Oh my god--is this about your little pet? He would have died for you regardless, you know? You could see it in his eyes. All the way through the interview, even the second your cart came into view."  
"I know." You do. You've always known, because he was strong and courageous, and if he'd wanted to win that fight no matter what and come back to you, you know he would have found a way. You know he took himself out, as much as the kid from the first, because he was your competition and you had to win. But you also know the child under the courage, who'd get stuck like a deer in the headlights if you showed him gentleness and affection, because he'd been so starved for it that it felt alien and dangerous to him. You know the boy who could never really comprehend how much you loved him, because he couldn't imagine why anyone would.  
You know that if you _had_ treated him as a pet, he might actually have understood it better.  
"But so did you," you continue. "You saw what he was like, and you still turned him into a beast."  
"I wasn't the only one, sweetie."  
"You're not the only one on my list."  
He gives a little admirative whistle at that, and raises an eyebrow. You want to shove your knife into his throat.  
"Just as I thought. You're more deadly than he ever was." He crosses his arms. "So what? Are you going to kill me here? In cold blood? Are you going to live with that?"  
You laugh, despite yourself. The question is absurd.  
"There's this little thing about the games, you see. You get used to killing in cold blood. And your life isn't worth a fraction of those I took in the arena."  
You tighten your hold on the knife. He's right within your reach. You could throw, and probably hit him before he reacts. You could slit his throat. Hell, even without the knife, it wouldn't be hard to snap his neck. You could try to remember every child who fell under your hand, several years ago, and put him through the same things.  
You think of Tadashi, so brave, but so frail in your arms with his face shredded and his arm torn off. You think of the love and rage he brought into the arena, the strength and persona he built to give you every chance as a pair, the way he gave everything, absolutely everything, to carry you through the end of the games and all the way there. You think about the strength he's given you, and how you're using it to finally take down the system that killed him, that killed his brother, that took from you two boys you loved with all your heart, in very different ways. You've carried it with you, given his life purpose.  
You hope he's as proud of you now as you always were of him.  
You hope they know that you're safe, that you'll go on, beyond revenge and revolution, that you'll rebuild this life he fought so hard to give you.  
Let the dead rest, you think. You have carried their memory with you, and fulfilled them.  
But Naoya... Naoya will have to live with what has been done to him.  
You take a deep breath. Fight with yourself for a few seconds (he's there, he's _right there_ , you could kill him and feel better, even if it'll never bring them back). Let it out slowly.  
You hand Naoya the knife.  
At first, he stares at it, like he can't believe that this moment is his. That he's _allowed_ to finally free himself. Then he picks it up, silently, delicately. Takes the few steps towards Loki's chair.  
"So, you're the one who's going to do it in the end?" His tone is conversational, almost _proud_ , and you can't tell if it's fear-fuelled bravado or if he's really that unhinged. "I always knew you'd be an interesting kid. That's why I took an interest in you, you know. So much potential, and much too smart for your own good."  
Naoya rests the hand with the knife against his thigh, takes hold of his chin, and smiles.  
"Don't worry. I'll make it _interesting_ until the end."

About fifteen minutes later, when the cries finally die out (cutting his tongue out definitely did help) and Naoya slits his throat to finally sever the link between them, you wonder what the capitol did to you, that you would watch this and enjoy it.  
You realise you don't care.  
He wipes the knife on the sleeve of Loki's jacket, about the only part of his suit that isn't gorged with blood, stands, and offers you the knife back, handle first.  
"Do you want to keep it?"  
He shakes his head.  
"I don't need it anymore."  
You take the knife and put it back at your belt. Naoya nods and heads out, opening the heavy sliding doors. You take a second to look at the corpse of the man who toyed with your lives, dreams and loved ones for his sick amusement: the blood still running thick from the deep cut in his inner thigh, the circular patterns from the stab wounds in his stomach and chest, the missing fingers on his hand (Naoya chose the right, such a sweet gesture), his deformed and swollen face, the cut across his neck.  
You see every child that died in the arena, those you killed yourself and those you were forced to send to die, despite your best efforts.  
He deserved worse. But this isn't about what _he_ deserved. You couldn't care less about him, not anymore. This was for the living. He is a thing of the past, finally.  
You turn your back on him, step out after Naoya, and let him close and lock the doors.  
Let the people of the capitol clean the mess. Whether you win and finally make them taste the fear of working under someone, or whether you lose and they have to clean up the damage, they won't be able to forget.  
Let them be the ones to deal with rotten flesh.


	12. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frosty is adorabloodthirsty and a lifelong friendship is born.

Jack hangs from one foot in the middle of the jungle, and tries his best not to scream.  
It's all so _stupid_. Stupid and unfair and ridiculous. He didn't face the mayhem at the cornucopia for this. He didn't come all this way, make all these efforts and risk his life for decent loot, only to die like an idiot on the first day of the games just because he'd assumed that anyone not staying for the bloodbath would leg it as far as possible instead of staying within a couple hours' reach to lay traps for, oh, stupid little boys careless enough to step into them.  
Grumbling under his breath, he lets his backpack slide from his shoulders so he can open it the right way up (no point in letting everything fall down and alert whoever set this up) and grabs--right. An ice pick. This is going to take ages.  
Why would they give you an ice pick anyway? Sure you can stab people with it, but it's not the kind of weapon they usually hand out. Maybe there's ice somewhere. Though it's hard to believe with the damp heat he's currently sweating in (too bad it's not enough sweat to make him slip out).  
He pulls the bag back up, crosses his legs for extra leverage, and pulls with all the strength of his abdominal muscles. There--he grabs the rope--vine, it's a vine. No wonder he didn't notice it, they're everywhere. Whoever put this up is good at camouflage--that, or they just didn't have rope. Probably the second. Grabbing his ice pick in his right hand, he goes to work on the vine holding him up.  
His heart sinks. It's surprisingly strong. This is going to take ages. If whoever set the trap doesn't catch up to him first, the group back at the cornucopia actually might.  
No point in crying about it now. He goes to work with gritted teeth, trying his best to tear into the vine with the tip of his weapon.

He's been at it for a couple of minutes when he registers the distinctive feeling of being watched. He looks around himself, frantically. No one in sight, they must be camouflaged--there. Standing just a few meters away, not even hiding in the bushes, just standing straight, not moving at all. A girl with long hair, already weaved in with leaves and mud--and stones in her hands. Large, heavy, pointy stones.  
Somehow, being stoned to death hadn't been one of the scenarios he'd thought of. He'd be kind of scared, if he wasn't busy feeling so _stupid_.  
He braces himself and prepares to twist and dodge. Who knows. Maybe the movement will break something and he'll be able to fight her. It's not like he's got anything to lose.  
The stone never comes.  
He stares at her--what is she doing, trying to tire him out before she attacks?--and blinks.  
She's crying.

He blinks again.  
Okay, so maybe she's still in shock from seeing people killed earlier. Or maybe she's feeling bad about killing him (she shouldn't, if he was stupid enough to get himself caught, but hey, he's not gonna complain if it wins him time). But any time now she's gonna...  
The girl drops one of her stones and wipes at her eyes. She's starting to sob, and by now Jack feels more uncomfortable than scared.  
"Um..."  
"I can't do it."  
Well, that bodes well for him, kinda, but that's no reason to stay there crying where the Careers can get them.  
"I can't... I don't know what I was thinking... I can't kill someone... I should just have stayed there... or run away instead of trying..." She's sobbing for real now, tears washing mud off her face. "I can't..."  
And she's crouching and hugging her knees, sobbing into them quietly.  
This is the weirdest day of Jack's life.

A minute passes and she's still curled up. This won't do, he thinks. If she's not gonna kill him, then she might as well let him down so he can go somewhere less conspicuous.  
But then again... maybe there's an even better idea.  
"Hey Lady, think maybe you can let me down? I've got a proposition for you."  
She looks up. Wary, but not totally closed off. Maybe he has a chance.  
"Look," he continues, "if we stay here, with the noise and me hanging in plain view, those guys back at the cornucopia are gonna find us easy. If you're not killing me, then I'd rather get away before they find me, know what I mean?" He puts on his best winning smile. " _But_. I'm not asking you to do it for free. So if you let me down, I'm not only promising I won't attack you right away," which is important, he concedes, "but I can be your ally. I'm good at fighting, and I've got supplies. But you're way better at camouflage than I am, and I can't do traps. So what do you think?"  
She stares up at him. It's a win-win situation, he thinks. She really doesn't look like a threat (and if she _is_ , then it's his own damn fault for letting his guard down), and he gets to come down, _and_ gets an ally out of it, one he doesn't have to worry too much about (he can always take her out later. Preferably late, turning on your friends unannounced is not cool). And if she's not good at fighting, well, she can't turn down an ally right now, even if they'll have to go their separate ways or try to kill each other later. Maybe it'll give her time to harden, too.  
Everybody wins.  
Besides, she looks pretty nice.  
After what's maybe a minute of her looking at him and him trying not to make weird faces because his legs are getting some serious static, she nods. He grins.  
"Okay, down we go, then! We better hurry before they find us."  
She nods again and walks into a cluster of trees. He bites his lip and waits, reminding himself that of course the mechanisms would be hidden too. Finally, after some shuffling, he feels the vine lower him, slowly at first, and then dropping him the last meter. He hits the ground with a winded "oof."

The girl comes back towards him while he's busy trying to rub life back into his legs. She bends down to silently undo the knots.  
"... so what's your name?"  
"... Midori." A pause, as she finally pulls the knot apart. "... are you all right?"  
"Yeah I'll be fine. Thanks." He tries to stand up, and stumbles a little--that leg needs a bit more moving before he can put weight on it. "I'm Jack, by the way."  
"Here, I'll help you."  
She slides an arm around his shoulders and helps him lean on her. For someone who was trembling a minute ago, her hold is surprisingly strong. She's definitely better at helping people than at killing.  
What a nice girl. He'd love to actually be her friend--too bad it's the arena.  
"So where are we going?"  
He takes a tentative step. Good, it's much easier this way.  
"Well, since you're good with vines, I say we go somewhere far away from here and make a hideout in a tree until the heat passes a bit." He grins. "And then, we're getting you a weapon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And by "getting you a weapon" he means "killing someone who has one" of course)


	13. Flint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Kazuya centric chapter, because somehow I hadn't written one yet

There is little as frustrating as finding out that your brother has given up on you.  
It's not like you don't know why you're here. Children of victors have been sent into the arena as cruel reminders before, extending that invitation to siblings isn't exactly surprising, especially a victor as unpopular and uncooperative as Naoya. But when you'd left district three, your mind had still been set on winning. If Naoya could, so can you. You're not letting them ruin his life a second time. He came back to you, and you intended to return the favour.  
But Naoya in the capitol is a different person. The difference is as strong as the change had been before and after he went into the arena, when the core you still recognised was strangled by layer upon layer of distrust and compulsive behaviours. There is a deep, deep hopelessness in Naoya's heart, spreading from there to his limbs, slowing him down, imperceptibly to most, probably, but blindingly obvious to you.  
For some reason, he doesn't believe that you _can_ live. And as much as you want to be frustrated at _him_ , you know that despite his pessimism, he wouldn't give up on you if he didn't have a good reason to think so. He might be easily carried by his emotions, but Naoya is still _rational_.  
So you're probably going to die.  
You should be scared, or depressed, but most of all, you find it _vexing_. You have things to do. You have people to protect--Naoya most of all, but Yuzu and Atsuro too. Your parents, to a certain degree. And even deeper than that, starting to bubble deep inside your bones, there is anger.  
Just who do they think they are, playing with him like that? It serves no practical purpose--Naoya is no idealist or revolutionary. They gain nothing in targeting him, aside maybe from reminding the people of district three that no matter how smart they are required to be deemed worthy of working on anything other than assembling parts and being paid enough to eat, they are not allowed to think too much, or be resourceful. Those brains are the capitol's supply. They must not be used against it.  
Such a petty show of power.  
And power breeds power, builds its own circles higher, stronger. Power is a self affirming spiral. But in hopelessness, in helplessness, there is a kind of power too. You are already dead. You have nothing left to lose, except Naoya himself, but what good would it be to try and keep him safe at this point? They will hurt him again anyway. No, you have nothing left to lose, and that gives you a power that the capitol can't take from you. A power the capitol doesn't even _have_ , tied up in its own chains holding its structure together. It gives you freedom.  
You know Naoya would still fight for you to the end. Even with no real belief in your victory, he would assist you to the best of his abilities, and spend every second left of your life trying to help you. He would not bear to do otherwise.  
But that's not what you want him to have. What you want to give him is hope.  
They are already hurting him, and nothing you can do can spare him that. So it's time you hurt them _back_.

You bend over the table behind which he's still reviewing strategies, and pluck the glasses from his face.  
He looks up at you, startled. You smile and set them on your nose instead.  
"... what are you doing?"  
"Getting my token. You have a spare, right?"  
He looks into your eyes, into the calm but playful smile that's slowly easing itself into your features again. Sighs.  
"Linking yourself to me will not do you any favour in the arena, you know."  
"With the gamemakers? Probably not. But how can the public resist tragic brothers torn apart by fate?"  
He flinches. Maybe you are cruel. It's probably a family trait.  
"... do you really want to play that angle?"  
His voice is strangely subdued, and somewhere you can hear a hint of fear. Something beyond the fear of losing you, beyond the gamemakers. There's this edge that you've never quite been able to uncover, the missing puzzle piece in what made your brother. And in what unmade him.  
Maybe being shameless is an even better idea than you thought. Who knows what it might uncover.  
"If they've already decided to kill me, being meek isn't going to change their mind. And I want them to know who I'm blaming." You look at him, in him. "I'm not ashamed of you, Naoya. I'm proud of who I am, and of who you are."  
He looks away. This isn't what he wanted. Despite his hopelessness, he wanted to _try_. To convince himself he'd done everything to try and save you. By going in with your head held high, you're reducing his efforts to rubble.  
It hurts him, and that hurts _you_ in turn, but you have had enough of seeing him fight for scraps, for the right to barely be left alone.  
You might die, but you are going to win. You are going to buy his freedom. You are going to give him hope.  
He sighs, presses his face in his hands for a few seconds, and then sits up straighter. There's still something hurt in the way he holds himself, but his shoulders are more determined now. No more putting bandaids over haemorrhaging wounds.  
"I guess we'll just have to work with this, then."

You grin, adjust your new glasses, and start brainstorming with him. But none of your actual plan leaves your lips.  
The capitol has barricaded itself behind barrels of powder, behind too-heavy reminders and petty vendetas.  
You are going to take everyone with you.  
And you are going to light a spark.


	14. Drought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven down, sixteen to go.

The first one is a boy, from district 8, if you remember well, a nervous little thing who had the sense to run as soon as the gong ran and kept running.  
He can't be older than 13. Not much older than Kazuya.  
Maybe you should have left him to the Careers. Less blood on your hands. But your game is already a long one, and you don't know how long you can keep this up, how long you have before deprivation takes its toll on your body and mind.  
The more you can kill early on, the higher your chances.  
You tell yourself that he'd die anyway. Whether it's by your hand or someone else. What difference does it make?

You smear the red berry juice over the side of your face and your arm, tear your sleeve, and stumble into the open.  
He jumps. He was smart enough not to make a fire, but the moonlight this close to the lake is strong enough to see properly, and it's not like you're being discreet with your footing. But not smart enough to kill you on sight, apparently. Your assessment was right--he's the kind who'd try to make allies early on. The kind who gets lonely, especially when they're alone at night in the cold.  
You almost "trip" over a larger pebble. He moves forward to catch you, out of instinct. You catch his extended arm, twist him, grab the back of his head, and push him down. Face first into the water.  
He tries to struggle, but the shock of the fall knocked the air out of his lungs, and now all that's coming back up is water. You keep your weight on top of him, twist his arm back, press his head down--he's small, but you're thin. Give him any leeway and you know he could throw you off. The struggling movements of his chest turn to spasms, his lungs trying to eject the water. You shift his weight further towards his head. Let the lungs open up. Let them fill.  
His nails scratch at your wrist. Your breath quickens under the effort, your teeth hurt from grinding them.  
The boy stops moving.

Several minutes later, when you finally hear the cannon go off, you sit up. Rinse your sweat-drenched face with lake water. Stand, one leg on each side of the corpse, and carefully step around it to fully gain your footing on the beach. Collect the boy's bag of woven grass.  
Behind you, the hovercraft appears out of nowhere, its claw coming down with a faint hiss.  
You step back into the forest, to put a long distance between this place and you, and find a spot to dry your clothes.  
You shiver in the cold.


	15. Interlude: Synthesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTMAS SPECIAL or something

Kazuya's house is always full of life.  
Maybe it's just like that in your eyes because you don't actually live there. Whenever you come, Kazuya is bound to be more noisy than usual just for talking to you, Naoya usually spares you some attention, and more often than not it's around dinnertime, which probably helps.   
Also, anything is livelier than an empty house.  
You hear your Mom talk to Naoya, bits and pieces of "terribly sorry," "deadlines, you know," " hopefully ready before they dock our pay." You're not mad at her. Ever since Dad died, she's been working for two just to put food on the table. And you're lucky that she's smart enough, talented enough, that people often specifically ask for her engineering skills and she _can_ make enough money. But it's still. Lonely.  
Naoya answers something about no problem and you keeping Kazuya out of trouble, and you hear her leave with Kazuya's parents.  
The door closes. The sound always makes you feel sad and unsafe, but today, like the few times you've been here for the same reason before, it feels strange. The door closes, but you're not alone.  
Naoya walks back into the kitchen, and when he sees you he gives a little side smile. It makes something inside you light up. There's _something_ about Naoya, a kind of aura he has that makes you _want_ to make him proud of you. Maybe it's because he's so smart. He's only 14, and yet people are already commissioning work from him. Normally, you'd have to wait until you finish school to start working. Unless you're useless at science and they send you to the factories early.  
You want to be like him someday.  
"Thanks for having me over." Your voice is quiet. Too quiet. Totally uncool.  
Naoya smiles anyway. It's a small thing, he's not one for big grins like Kazuya, but you can tell when he does it anyway. They look alike in the weirdest ways, despite their eyes and hair.  
"Don't worry about it. Isn't Kazuya with you?"  
"He said he had to finish something for school and he'd come down afterwards."  
Naoya sighs.  
"That'll teach him to daydream." He opens the sliding door that hides his computer, pulls a chair in front of it, and sits. You're still amazed he even has one. He really is a genius, to be allowed a computer at home. You stare at the screen, and it doesn't take him a long time to notice. "Do you want to see?"  
"Oh!" You blush a little but move closer. The letters on the screen don't make much sense to you, but there's something elegant in the way they're arranged. Naoya's code looks less organised than what you've seen from your Mom, but you think you can still feel a kind of flow in the lines of code. You squint. There's this here that seems to... introduce? Something? But when you try to follow that line of thought, you get distracted by everything else, and it slips from your fingers. "What does that line mean?"  
"I'm defining the space where this variable will be stored. Then for each calculation..." He cuts himself off, but one look at your face makes him pause and tilt his head. "...the language isn't overly complicated. Do you want to learn?"  
You nod excitedly.  
He smiles, minimises the window, and pushes his chair slightly to the right.  
"Pull up a chair, then."

By the time Kazuya comes down (you're not sure how much later, probably about twenty minutes judging by the smell of cooking food), he finds you hugging your knees next to Naoya as you tentatively spell out a first basic program. Naoya types it as you talk, and by the faint smile on his lips when you finally look away from the screen and back at him, you think you're probably right.  
Kazuya crosses his arms.  
"So I'm there doing homework and you two are having fun without me."  
"That's because Atsuro already finished his," Naoya answers without even looking at him. "Here," he adds, pushing his chair away a little so you can access the keyboard, "type in your values. We'll see if it runs properly."  
You slide down from your chair, try to hide your excitement, and type the numbers where he tells you to, before pressing enter.  
You don't even have time to hold your breath. Before you even bring your finger back up, the answer is there on the screen.  
It's just a simple math operation, a basic example Naoya cooked up to make you understand the logic, and since you're pretty good at math anyway, you could've calculated it on paper if you had a couple of minutes. But seeing it appear on the screen like that, summoned by this program you created, feels so much more surreal and powerful.  
It's like magic.  
"... it works!"  
Kazuya sticks his head on your shoulder.  
"Ooh, did you make that one?"  
"Yeah! Well--with Naoya's help."  
"Nice." He releases you and gives a dramatic sigh. "Why am I surrounded by geniuses?"  
"I'm not--"  
"Well done."  
Naoya has patted your shoulder. Maybe that's even more surreal.  
"... thanks."  
"I'll teach you more next time you come, if you want. I still have some of the books from when I started."  
"Really!?"  
"Why not? They're gathering dust and using up space as it is."  
You're starting to think you're dreaming when Kazuya calls you back to reality.  
"So who's hungry?"  
You are. You were so concentrated that you'd forgotten about it, but as soon as he mentions food, your stomach reminds you that the kitchen is smelling very nice, and starts growling. Naoya turns off the screen and stands up.  
"Take out the plates then."

You're halfway through your potatoes (with a slice of butter!) when someone knocks on the door. It's quiet; you almost miss it, but Naoya's head turns straight away, and he goes to open the door, frowning.   
It's Yuzu.  
She's shivering, wearing only a jacket over her pyjamas, and looking down, somewhere between ashamed and angry.  
"Yuzu?"  
She looks up at you, but before she can answer, Naoya gently ushers her in and closes the door.  
"Are they fighting again?"  
She nods. Her eyes are all red, but her face is hard, like she's trying not to cry.  
Kazuya has already slid from his chair to hug her, and you follow after him. Yuzu sniffs once, but holds back sobs. You hug her a little tighter.  
"You should eat something warm," Kazuya decrees. He pulls her towards the table, lets you sit her down, and goes to fetch her a plate, before cutting half of his potato and sliding it on her plate.  
Naoya just sighs and gives him another before adding a couple for Yuzu.  
"... thank you."  
Her voice is quiet, like she's ashamed, and you feel so useless for not knowing how to cheer her up. You want to grow up into someone who can cheer his friends up.  
"It's okay, it feels like a party with you here," you claim with all the assurance you can muster.  
She gives you a tearful smile, and your heart does a little flutter.  
"Go on, eat," Naoya tells her. "If your mother doesn't show up before the parents come back, I'll send Dad to warn her."  
"She probably didn't notice I left."  
"She will eventually.' He sits down and takes a bite out of his own potato. "At least she probably knows to look for you here by now."  
"I don't want to go back."  
She's looking down, ready to cry again. Kazuya gives his brother an accusatory look. You join in with a pleading one of your own.  
"... I'll tell her we invited you to stay since Atsuro was here," Naoya finally sighs. Kazuya just grins.  
Yuzu finally nods and starts cutting her potatoes, looking a bit calmer.

Later, when your belly is comfortably full with potatoes and Yuzu has cheered up enough to start chatting with Kazuya about what happened in school, you watch Naoya put away the last potatoes, safely kept warm under a lid, and follow him when he goes back to his computer.  
"... thanks for earlier."  
He chuckles.  
"Don't worry about it. It's nice to talk to someone who's really interested."  
You tilt your head to the side.  
"Don't a lot of people like it?" It's district three, after all. A lot of people work with computers.  
"They're raised for it. They're taught it. They don't have a choice." His face is a little harder, like you brought up some bad memories. "It's harder to really like it under those conditions. So no, people who really love programming are more rare than you'd think."  
For the first time since you met Kazuya and his quiet, too smart brother, you actually realise that he's probably lonely.  
"... well I'd be happy to learn. --I mean, if you have time."  
"I do." He gives you a headpat, and his face looks... amused. "But not tonight. It's already late."  
You nod, thank him again, and turn your attention back to the other end of the room, where Kazuya and Yuzu have lied down on the floor with some paper and a box of pencils.  
"What are you drawing?"  
"You remember the story we told you about last time?" Kazuya asks. "With the robot princess and her faithful cat?" You nod. "Well, we're gonna make a _comic_."  
"Isn't that hard?"  
"That's why we're starting early," Yuzu says.   
You take a look at the paper. They're better than you, by a lot. The princess's arms actually look mechanical, and the dress (pink, of course, they love pink) is pretty.  
You wonder if one day, they could make robots just like her, who look and _think_ like humans. Robots with hearts.  
You wonder if you'd ever be good enough to help.  
"... I can't draw," you tell them, trying not to sound too disappointed.  
"You can still help with the story," Yuzu tells you before passing you a pencil.

You wake up, for a few seconds, when you feel something dropping over you. You blink your eyes open to take things in--Kazuya's chest under your face, Yuzu's hand in yours, the pencil still in your other hand--and see Naoya silently moving back to his computer. You shrug a little lower under the new, warm blanket, and close your eyes.


	16. Rhizomes

"There's someone you should meet."  
The woman who took custody of Mari and you after Kresnik and Haru were taken to the hospital is somewhat short but well built, strong muscles suggested even into the lines of her neck. You'd have thought her too young to be an officer, but from her conversations with Mari, all you see is professionalism, determination, and a certain edge of ruthlessness.  
She wears her hair short, like all the soldiers you've seen here so far, but its colour reminds you of Yuzu.  
You still haven't been able to see them. The route your rebel-led group took to escape the Capitol was longer than the almost bee-line they made from the arena, and by the time you finally set foot in district 13, they'd been taken into the hospital to be treated for injuries and fed properly. But Soldier Izuna, at least, had been the one in charge of their rescue operation, and the first thing she did when you met her was to reassure you of their well being.  
Mari's body language shifts, subtly. Weight from her dominant foot to the other. Scratching at the back of her hand. Another of those pampered Capitol rebels, maybe? She hadn't seemed too fond of them on the way, and you can understand her.  
"Well, let's not keep them waiting, shall we?"  
Izuna nods to acknowledge your words and takes you through a couple of corridors and down a flight of stairs, Mari still following. The place is dreary, but after your time in the Capitol, it's almost a relief. You have too many bad associations with everything that shines.  
She gives a quick knock on a door, opens it without waiting for an answer, and nods you in.  
Blue hair.  
A body frame that's just a little too big, turning towards you.  
Blue eyes.  
Your body's on him, gripping him by the shoulders, painfully, shaking.  
" _Prove it._ "  
It can't. It can't be him, not when you tried so hard to mourn him, not when they didn't even let you see... the body...  
He grins despite the pain, looks up at you.  
"C'mon, genius, you're the one with the brains; you figure it out."  
Something breaks. You stay frozen, eyes fixed on his, unable to detach from them, like last year, because if you do it'll be the last time, you won't see him again, you won't--  
Slowly, shakily, you release his shoulders, trail your hands against the back of his neck and up to craddle the back of his head, and press your forehead to his.  
You're crying.

Against your face, you feel a quiet, happy sigh, and his arms reach up to wrap around your neck. You let one of your hands fall to his back, press his body closer. Warm and alive.  
Alive.  
"How did you survive?"  
"Sounded the cannon early. I was still alive when they evacuated my 'body' from the arena. And then hijacked the process halfway through so I never made it to their morgue." He's pushing damp hair out of your face. "Sorry I couldn't warn you. I wanted to--but you were under tight guard. Not knowing anything was your best protection." You bristle for a second, too tired of being an unknowing pawn in others' games, of being both hurt and protected without your opinion being taken into account. But he's alive, and you know his argument makes sense, and for him, right now, you could forgive anything. "And with their eyes on you, it made it easier to rescue everyone else."  
Everyone else. That's right. Yuzu and Atsuro, too, safely hidden somewhere in this maze of corridors.  
They're safe. They're all safe. Your guiding light is alive and your star pupils safe, despite all odds, in some kind of absurd miracle. You escorted them to death and somehow they all came back to you.  
For the first time in five years, you feel the lead shroud over your heart lift.  
It's dizzying. Your weakened knees lose their balance and your weight wavers slightly. He tightens his hold around your neck and takes one step back, two steps back, leans his back against the wall so you can use it and him for support. You lean against it gratefully, taking care to keep cushioning his head to spare it the hard, cold surface.  
It's so strange. There is a world of possibilities open before you now, actions to be taken, paths to be walked. You try to make a sense out of them, to sort them in your mind. The task is immense.  
Kazuya smiles at you.  
"You're free. They can't use us against you anymore. There's nothing and no one holding you back."  
Absurd, vertiginous freedom. You can barely imagine it anymore. But in the midst of your spinning thoughts, you realise the catch in that statement, the quiet acceptance in his voice.  
You look him right in the eye.  
"... no one?"  
He shakes his head.  
"No one. I checked the news while we were waiting for your group to show up." He smiles faintly. "... are you sad?"  
A pang of guilt... a low kind of lethargy. A faint emptiness.  
"... not really. I mourned them a year ago." But that's not fair to him, who was loved and sacrificed more. "Kazuya, I'm--"  
"Don't." He shakes his head, then leans it forward against your shoulder for comfort. "There was no guarantee I could have saved them, from the moment they took me here. This plan was bigger than me or you, Naoya." There it is, the slight pain in his voice, already melting into determination. "But I was offered a chance to save you, Atsuro and Yuzu. There was no way I'd give up on all of you for what was sure to be a fool's errand." He looks back up at you. "I made my own choice, Naoya. Don't apologise." And then a smile, that knowing grin you know so well. "'It's not like you."  
Despite everything, you chuckle.  
"You haven't changed one bit.  
" _You_ 've let yourself go. The Naoya I know would have found a way to take down the arena himself. I half expected you to accidentally get in our way."  
"I ran out of time." You shake your head. With your mind less clouded, it's easier to picture all the ways you could have acted, had your hands not been tied. "I should have predicted they would target Atsuro and Yuzu. I would have had time to set up what I needed. But in two weeks? One wrong move, and I'd anihilate their chances of one of them making it out alive. And before that, I still thought I could shield them. Taking action would put that in jeopardy." You sigh. "I was a fool."  
He chuckles and rests his head against your shoulder again, his fingers idly playing with the strands of hair falling to your back. You suddenly realise that Izuna and Mari have left. A while ago, even.  
You really _have_ let yourself go. Back in the arena, you would have felt their presence, and noticed them leave.  
You lean forward, resting your weight against him, feeling his hair brush your face. Imprinting the reality of his existance into your body.  
"... what are you gonna do now?"  
You think about it. There are many options. You could quietly stay here; no doubt they could use your expertise, for both domestic and security uses.  
But the world outside is burning, and seeing him here, you know some of these flames have been lit for your sake. It would be unseemly to hide.  
"Now? Well, now that I'm no longer under surveillance and have my two students back, I think I'm going to counter attack." You smile. "Starting with exploiting the security faults I introduced in every single program I fed them over the years."  
He looks up at you and grins.  
"And what do I do while you geniuses work? Just wait for Fushimi to decide to risk me and Amane in combat?"  
"Oh, don't you worry." You look at him, and think back to his first, tiny revolution that the Capitol tried so hard to keep off their screens. "I am going to make you ubiquitous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the moment they ended up pressed against a wall was the moment Izuna decided she had seen quite enough of this nonsense and offered to take Mari for a tour of the facilities, and also probably tea.


	17. Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Capitol needs more pastel goth

Yuzu's stylist has a golden arabesque on her face, stretching from her eyelid and the corner of her eye like girls at home do with simple oily pencils, turning her profile into something almost magical.  
Too bad the spiky hair ruins it.  
She could be beautiful. A softer pink on the hair, maybe, something less neon fuchsia and closer to rose petals, to complement the gold, and lose curls held back, ringlets flowing behind her like the ones curling on her face. And her blue eyes are so pretty. All those bright colours are killing them.  
 _If I was born here, I could actually do this stuff._ Design clothes, sew them maybe, even. Not like Capitol people _need_ to sew anything, but if their escort can get into programming as a _hobby_ and become good enough in his _free time_ that he can actually talk about it with Naoya and Atsuro about it, then there's no reason she couldn't find the time to come up with styles better than these. Maybe she'd even be succesful.  
 _Maybe you're the one who'd be here. Prettying up kids and constructing them a persona so Capitol people can root for a character and watch them kill and get killed in the arena._  
"Are you all right? You're looking a little green." She giggles. "I mean, I _could_ make you green, but it doesn't really fit with our theme here."  
Yuzu swallows.  
"I'm fine. I just ate a lot at lunch."  
She gives a noisy, reassured smile, and keeps on talking about her creative process.  
 _You could talk to her. Give her your ideas. Maybe you can actually get along, like Naoya and Atsuro do. It wouldn't hurt. A good stylist can save your life in the arena._  
But when she tries, all she sees is herself, with pretty pictures on her desk and the scared faces of every kid who got on the train over the years. This woman was here last year, too, she reminds herself. She dressed that girl and turned her into a woman, gave her the atributes of domination just to let her be stared at and lusted over.   
She's suddenly very grateful that Kazuya's stylist is with Atsuro. She's not sure she could handle being in the same room.  
 _Who am I, Atsuro? I'm not like her._  
No, there is no way she could make friends with this woman and her pretty eyes and atrocious hair. Not when she doesn't even see her as a human being. The only way to deal with her is think of her as an object too.  
But collaborate... maybe that she can do. Naoya has taught her well, and these capitol people are easily led (they're raised for it, just like he said. Perfect little sheep, just following their president's lead, at least until they take an accidental step out of line and get sent to slaughter). Maybe she can charm her enough to gain some control over her own image.  
... and Atsuro's, maybe. She can't see him talking over his stylist.  
And it's better than thinking about her Talent. Better than thinking about an After to the games.  
Focus on the moment, Naoya told them. Be ruthless.  
"Okay, that's pretty and all," she starts, and takes her sweetest face when the woman stares at her, "but don't you think it's a bit too... predictable?"  
The woman frowns, but there's a hint of curiosity and excitement in her eyes.  
 _Bingo_.  
"Why, do you have a better suggestion?"  
"Well, I mean, I'm just a normal district girl, but..." Look down. "I know district three well..." Look back up, smile shyly. "And it's the last time I can really look pretty, you know? So I wanted to try an idea..."  
The woman gives a soft little 'oh' and bends closer to the table, and Yuzu knows she's won.


	18. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have a feeling you'll surprise everyone."

On her first night in the arena, Haru sleeps with wire wrapped around her fingers.  
It was probably meant to make a bow. A lot of the stuff lying around the cornucopia had been raw materials; looked like the theme of the arena this year was DIY. Lucky if you were from seven. Or maybe three or twelve--figure they'd try to spice things up a bit after last year's weird as fuck games. Maybe they'll have a few kids die when their own handmade equipment blows up in their face.  
But Haru doesn't know how to build a bow. She knows the basics, of course, the shitty a-stick-and-a-string bows kids sometimes make to battle other kids with two sticks tied together as a sword. But that's not a weapon. A weapon would require careful crafting, a knowledge of balance, seeing where the wood's likely to give. She knows that much, at least.  
So instead she sleeps with her wire carefully coiled around both of her hands.

When the boy with the stone knife approaches her with careful steps, she waits until he's almost close enough to slit her throat and sits up fast enough to headbutt him, wraps an arm around his neck and coils the wire around his throat, once, twice. It cuts into his skin and spills blood on the ground, but her hands are far enough behind him to avoid slipping, and there is nothing for him to grab, to pry away from his neck.  
She pulls him flush against her by the wire around his throat, uses his own weight to keep him tipped backwards on her, and waits for his struggling to stop, for the cannon to sound.

Her hands are bleeding when she lets go, her fingers cramped from holding onto the wire. She pries them open one by one, one hand and then the other, and licks at her wounds.

She blows a kiss at the camera, at the victor from last year who must be watching.  
 _Thanks for the tip, man. Hope that wasn't one of yours._

It's surprisingly easy to kill when you've always felt like you were dead already.

 

On her last night in the arena, Haru looks up at the night sky and begins to sing.  
The air is still and silent around the now-deserted cornucopia, and it's hard to make her voice crack alive after a week and half of staying silent. But she can feel the need rising in her stomach, the wave of blissful dizziness and focus that starts at her core and spreads through her lungs and into her entire body, her heart, her head. The first note croaks out, and she laughs--derision, relief. This is freedom. She starts again, her lungs vibrating with the laugh that's now in her voice.  
 _Come on. I'm waiting for you._  
She sings.  
Her entire body is whispering with echoes and harmonies, bones humming like a lover's embrace, like a call for battle. She laughs again--tonight is freedom, one way or another. Tonight is her night.  
 _You looking at me, Aya? Looks like you were right about those wings of mine._  
Wings--she switches tracks and sings about angels. She doesn't look like one anymore, by now, but with her torn dark clothes, her red hair and her spear, maybe she'll make a passable angel of death. She lets the music carry her, the vibrations in her flesh wind her up for battle. It's the same fierce, breathless feeling. The same one she felt when she was on her back, a boy's weight pressed on her and bloody wire cutting into her hands. Except this one makes her want to laugh.  
"Shut the fuck _up_!"  
The girl--tall, wide, but weakened, thin almost like the poor kids from eleven had been--strides towards her, teeth bared. Haru lowers her spear.  
"I was getting tired of waiting. How about we leave the arena tonight?"  
"Sounds good to-- _me_."  
She's already lunged, her sword (sword? She must have been the lucky winner of the cornucopia's grand prize) slashing up and forward. Haru blocks, jumps back, knocks it aside and rams the blunt end of her spear into her stomach.  
It only gives her a second's respite, but it's enough to gather her wits and make her mind. She puts her guard up, just a little too low, too far to the side. The girl snarls and rushes her, knocks her spear aside and runs her through, the sword sinking into her side to the hilt.  
Haru screams, but she's too far gone already, drunk on sound and adrenaline. She brings her spear back up, behind her opponent, locks her close. Grabs the stone knife at her waist. Stabs it through the girl's throat.  
The cannon sounds. Haru laughs, lets go of the body. Cries. Laughs. Faints, the sword still stuck in her body.

On her first day awake after the arena, Haru wears a white dress with wings of gauze that float behind her when she walks.  
Not all angels go to heaven.


	19. Pudica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You make your own choices now, and you know what you want._  
>  Kazuya, Naoya, and the ghosts on his skin.  
> (Obvious incest warning for Kazuya/Naoya, and mentions of sexual/emotional abuse. Safe for work)

You find yourself, on one more still, almost silent night, in Naoya's room.  
It happens every few days: they kick Naoya out of the lab by force so he doesn't spend a fourth or fifth night there, and you wake up to find him pacing in the room next to the one you, Yuzu and Atsuro occupy.  
Despite your best efforts and the relief of the pressure put on his shoulders, moving to district 13 has done nothing to fix his sleeping schedule. Maybe it has been too long.  
You find yourself, then, coming to his room every time this happens, and sometimes you'll just talk, sometimes you'll sit in silence, leaning against each other, but tonight what you find yourself doing, sitting next to each other on his bed (maybe he'll actually fall asleep), is moving your fingers through the ends of his hair.  
You've always loved his hair. It made him different, and that probably didn't help him much when it came to making friends with other people, but his white hair and red eyes always felt more _special_ than weird. Something uniquely his, that belonged to him alone. And, indirectly, to you.  
(Looking back, you were a pretty possessive kid)

He doesn't react much. You've always been a bit tactile when it came to him, and spending a year without him has made you clingy. And more importantly maybe, you know touch anchors him to reality, just like working allows him to escape it. His eyes are just lightly shut, his breath slow, occasionally deepening into a sigh when you move his hair in what must be a nice way.  
It's nice and comfortable, and you could just stay like this in the hopes that he'll eventually fall asleep against your shoulder, but the more you watch his face, the more your fingers seem to vibrate with the need to touch more, and slowly they rise until they're combing through more of his hair, then almost brushing its roots, and finally they brush up the side of his jaw and to his cheek, settling there next to his ear with a little rub of your fingertips.  
He opens his eyes. Silent, face almost blank, just his eyes fixed on yours. You know he's observing you, and that in itself is a kind of message.  
"... is this okay?"  
He doesn't move, doesn't answer. Waiting for you to act, one way or another. To see your decision.  
You decide to trust in him and slide fingers into the roots of his hair, rub behind his ear.

His eyes slide shut again, and his head moves ever so slightly into your touch. It's so little, but it makes your heart skip; it reminds you of the days when touch was easy, when he met every one of your hugs with warmth of his own, days before he was sent away. You've been rebuilding since then, on both sides, but there were things that you had always felt were off limits, particular gestures or spots that made him tense, and you'd stayed away. Tonight, though, you want to try. He's been slipping away from you for so long, and you're tired of it, tired of the ghosts on his skin. You want to try, and you will, as long as he lets you and wants you to.  
You slide your hand deeper into his hair. It makes you reach a bit too far, so you twist until you're almost facing him, leaning over him a little. He rests his head into the cradle of your hand, chest rising and falling into a shaky sigh. You bite the inside of your lip. You _want_ to, with his body feeling so natural in your hands, but...  
"Naoya," you call out in a whisper, and he opens his eyes and slides them back up to your face.  
He can see you. You won't take him by surprise.  
You bend down and kiss him, short and light, just a gentle press of your lips to his before you pull back.

You expected him to blink. Instead, what you get is his eyes locked on yours with an unsettling lack of life, and his face barely moving from its blankness to accommodate one single shaky exhale, before his breath goes back to unnatural regularity.  
Something is off.  
You sigh and look down to compose yourself. There's a hint of disappointment in you, but most of all, what you feel is worry.  
"... are you uncomfortable because it's me?" He stays silent. The alarm bells in your mind get more insistent, and you bring your eyes back up to confront his. "You can tell me? I understand, I won't get mad or anything..." You give him a small smile. "I love you anyway. This way or another. I won't go away just because you say no."  
The unmoving silence spreads for another few seconds, and finally, right when the intensity in his eyes was about to make you bite your lip, he shakes his head and slides an arm around your waist.  
"No. It's because it's you that I can allow it at all."

And that's when you know for sure that your suspicions were horribly right.

You let yourself give in to the invitation of his arm, lean against his chest and let him pull you in and close as you ponder your next words.  
In the end, blunt honesty wins out.  
"They hurt you, didn't they."  
"Is that news?"  
"You know what I mean, Naoya."  
His answer is just too late to be casual, though he keeps his voice even.  
"Yes."  
You realise you don't know what to do. You'd had your doubts for a while--for years, really, but with no chance to confront him, you had never put enough thought to what you would do afterwards. What you _should_ do afterwards.  
_Focus on him._  
You slide your fingers back into his hair.  
"... will you tell me about it?"  
"There isn't much to tell." He smiles, a tense smirk of self-depreciating humour. "In truth, not much happened at all. You could say I was lucky."  
"Lucky enough that you can't properly hug Atsuro and Yuzu anymore?"  
He looks away, clicking his tongue in frustration. You stay silent, hesitant to push but unwilling to outright let go. You just let him answer at his own speed instead. Or shut you down himself.  
"And there I was hoping you'd blame that on the trauma of the arena."  
"You taught me too well." You comb hair out of his face. "You taught us all too well."  
"I should be proud of you, shouldn't I?" He's smiling, with an edge of sheepish sarcasm still, but more natural. You give him a tiny grin and he answers it by petting your hair once, like he sometimes did when you were younger. "... I was harassed, not violated." His voice is even, almost expressionless, but the words finally come out. Detached, but finally given shape. "It was holding lives in the balance as token of my cooperation and willingness that made the wariness stick."  
And that's when you finally get it, the final piece of the puzzle, the reason he kept hardening instead of healing, the reason he didn't let himself grow close to you again. You tried so hard to keep him safe, to make him better, but in doing so you might have given the enemy the very weapon to hurt him.  
You feel sick.  
"You mean..."  
"Yours. Atsuro, Yuzu. The other tributes I had to mentor." He shakes his head, mouth almost forming other words but then twisting back into silence.  
You rest your forehead against his shoulder, trying to swallow the horror and guilt.  
"... I'm sorry, Naoya."  
"It wasn't your fault."  
"They used me to hurt you."  
"And I wouldn't have been alive to be hurt if you hadn't been there in the first place. Stop worrying about useless things."  
It's not useless. But you refuse to push him beyond what he's willing to give. You nuzzle his shoulder instead, and feel your heart jump when he sighs in a way that almost sounds happy. The muscles in his shoulder are still tense, but they're slowly relaxing again. Little by little.  
Finally, you speak out again.  
"Who was it?"  
"Does it matter? In a matter of months, either of us will be dead." You frown, but he's placating you with a hand on your head. "And I'm not planning on losing. Don't worry about it, Kazuya. He can't reach me here. And I intend to kill him myself, if I can."  
"Good."  
You wonder why you're so ready for it, why the thought brings you such satisfaction. Surely you've seen enough death.  
He smirks.  
"I will probably enjoy it, too. I intend to take my time. Does that bother you?"  
"No."  
He chuckles.  
"You really are my brother. The one they should have been scared of was you all along."  
You smile against his shoulder (it does make you proud, to hear this from him), and bring your head up to face him, foreheads almost touching.  
"And just as you said, I wouldn't have had a reason to scare them if _you_ hadn't been there. You were my reason to fight."  
He smiles.  
"Ironic, isn't it?"  
"A little." You press closer to him, cup his face in your hand. "Can I?"  
"Yes."  
"I'll be careful."  
"I know."  
You kiss him, slow and light but not quite as short, and take in a shuddery breath when his hand comes to wrap around the back of your shoulder.

He doesn't move, doesn't really kiss back, but this time when you pull away his eyes are closed, his lips barely parted. He opens them again, looks at you, and that's what makes you press close to kiss him again. Still feather-light, no pressure at all; the gesture is all that matters to you. The gesture, and the feeling of his lips under yours. This isn't the time for heavy sensuality. You don't know if there ever will be a time for that, with him.  
His hand tightens on your shoulder and his breath is shaking slightly when you break the kiss.  
Tightening, but keeping you close, not pushing you away.  
"... why are you doing this?"  
You hesitate. You could come up with a lot of answers, some more honest than others. You know you could speak in half-truths, and he'd accept it, because it's always been a given with you two that your words are always more than they seem, that sometimes two manipulative people can only be honest through actions. You could play his game of telling nothing but the truth, but not all the truth. You could talk of curiosity. Of loneliness. Of the way you express yourself.  
You decide that for him, only the complete and naked truth will do.  
"...because I love you." He blinks, this time, and you know all the times you said it over the years must come back to him, the way the easy words in childhood became determined and deliberate when he began doubting that anyone could. "Because I want you to be happy." Your voice hardens, gains in intensity as your feelings give you strength, finally given a stage to fight on. You bring your hands to cup his face again. "Because I don't want you to ever have a single doubt about how much you mean to me."  
And you kiss him, again. You've been doing that a lot. But right now, you don't know how else to express what's beating inside you, and kissing is a pretty good way of getting your point across.  
His lips move against yours, ever so slightly. You're the one who gasps, and pulls back, and looks at him sheepishly.  
"... because... I hoped you wanted it too, I guess?"

He's smiling. He looks amused, even. _What an ass_ , you think, before your mind supplies: _that's why you love him_. And that, too is true. In many ways, despite what people might think, you are much too alike.  
"And just what made you think that?"  
Back to his usual games. But you don't mind. It's an invitation to play, and one you can take.  
"For someone with so many issues with touch, you didn't seem to mind the number of times I hung myself around your neck." And you wrap your arms there, again, for good measure.  
He chuckles, but wraps his other arm around your waist. You're basically on his lap by now, and you find it's a development you mind about as much as you expected.  
"No shift in our relationship will change the feelings I have for you either way, Kazuya."  
You grin.  
"Not either way, huh?"  
"Good boy."  
You're winning. But you're winning on his terms, the way he wants you to.  
"Then I think I'll take my chances." You rest your head against his shoulder. "As long as you want me to, anyway."  
"What else can I do, when you're so insistent?"  
For one second, you resent that. You hate the way he still can't be direct with you after you opened your heart to him. You hate that he's still framing it as something he _has_ to do, not something he _wants_ to do, when he knows you'd have backed off the second he said "no."  
But as he said that, he's brushed his hand up your back, neck, and into your hair, a careful, affectionate caress that ends into a protective hold, and rested his chin against your hair. The last time he did this, you were praying with all your heart that you weren't sending him off to die.  
And he did come back to you when you asked. And, looking back, it had been an order more than a request. An order that had kept him alive, yes. But now, looking back at five years of choices he didn't get to make, you feel some kind of guilt.  
You've always been insistent. But he's also always welcomed it, as far as you can remember.  
_Would it hurt you to let your real feelings show a little?_ you'd wanted to ask him earlier. But you know that for five years, the answer was yes.  
That, too, will take a while to heal.  
But you're older now, stronger. No longer the little boy who was left behind because he was too young to volunteer in his place. No longer the boy who'd wanted to help him with his work, cook for him, so many things he didn't know how to do, as long as it pulled him out of the fog on his mind and heart. The arena made you stronger and taught you about sacrifice, being separated finished the work four years of trying to help him had done and taught you to stand on your own. It taught you the difference between _need_ and _want_.  
You make your own choices now, and you know what you want. And most of it resides, awake or asleep, in this room and the next.  
You led a group of scared kids against seasoned fighters in the arena and almost won. You have a revolution on your shoulders, hanging on your smiles and your eyes and them never breaking at least as much as on your victories, hanging on the chemistry you and Amane can maintain. You can fight a few ghosts, no matter how resilient they are, to win back what is most precious to your heart.  
You kiss his neck, where it was exposed right in front of your face. He tenses slightly, but doesn't pull back, doesn't release his hold.  
"Promise me you'll tell me if you don't like something."  
The wording is important. If you'd asked him about what made him _uncomfortable_ , you know he would never make that promise, because he wouldn't keep it. But that also means you trust him not to lie to you.  
"I promise, Kazuya."

You bring a hand up to play with his hair and kiss up his neck. He's thin and tall, and you never quite realised how long it was before you had to climb it with your lips. His chest moves under you, breaths that don't speed up but deepen, become audible to your ears.  
You've just reached his jaw when it's his hand that tightens in your hair, out of nowhere, and suddenly he's the one kissing you, keeping you firmly in place with his arm and hand, and it sends a shiver of euphoria running through your heart and body.  
_Yes._  
You've wanted this, more than you liked to admit even to yourself. You've wanted his arms around you, the subtly possessive grip that you haven't felt in years.  
You didn't want him to let you. You wanted him to _want_ you.  
You kiss back until he pulls away himself, and he's back to cold, intense observation but you know that's how he protects himself, and you. Not exposing his vulnerabilities, but not pressuring you with desires or expectations either.  
So you smile and take over, run your fingertips against his face, build a mental map of what makes him sigh, what makes him blink, what makes the light in his eyes dim for fractions of seconds before he moves into it.  
He's not telling you everything and that's okay. There are things he needs to heal for himself, that nothing you can do will fix for him unless he's the one who faces them.  
But he's in your arms where you can protect each other, stop him from getting hurt again, and for the first time in many years, you have a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[Mimosa pudica](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mimosa_pudica) (from Latin: pudica "shy, bashful or shrinking"; also called sensitive plant, sleepy plant and the touch-me-not), is a creeping annual or perennial herb often grown for its curiosity value: the compound leaves fold inward and droop when touched or shaken, to protect them from predators, re-opening minutes later._
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> [Chapter illustration](http://uselesslilium.tumblr.com/post/107068757134/an-illustration-for-the-art-of-pruning-chapter) by Lily


	20. Acclimatation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family, before and after

Your house in the Victor's Village is too large and too cold. They've cleaned it for your arrival, but there's still something about it that _feels_ empty. The lack of lingering kitchen smells, perhaps. The silence outside.  
Kazuya, of course, settles in like the place's always belonged to him.  
"Look, we get actual individual rooms. And you have a _study_ ," he says, taking possession of the desk in said study like he didn't just assign it to you.  
You're not sure how you feel about the individual rooms. They're both a blessing and a curse. Much needed privacy to help you hide and manage the irrational waves of panic, the insomnia, the compulsive habits. The weapon you still keep with you when you go to bed. But at the same time, you wonder if you wouldn't sleep more soundly with the sound of his breath.  
You soon realise it's actually irrelevant. Within a week you're already spending more time in your study than in your room (that, too, has a weapon, though that one is carefully concealed in your desk).

The first time your mother tries to walk into your room while you're asleep, the knife is in your hand before she even sees you move.  
You never attacked. Even at the depth of your paranoia in the arena, you've never been the kind for rash attacks. The position you took was defensive. But in that moment when you stared at each other, murderous fear mirroring frozen fear, the space between you solidified, a wall you would never really lift.  
You had been her child, once. But she had already mourned you, and the man who returned was something lethal, ruthless, something no longer human. And try as she might, there was nothing there anymore to hold back the discomfort you always brought, or the resentment cultivated by a society where your academic gifts marked you as better than her.  
In the weeks that follow, it becomes obvious that their son is gone.

It's subtle, at first. They make an effort to talk to you normally, but the effort shows. They stare, when they think you aren't looking. Most importantly, they don't touch you, and while it could be simple consideration for your trauma, there is none of that hesitation or yearning in their reservation that you see in Kazuya. He will reach and stop himself, or slow down, make deliberate movements. They never even start, and once or twice you see them recoil.  
You scare them.  
And really, who are you to argue? You killed thirteen children in cold blood. Some of them were older than you, but that's irrelevant. You know enough about humans to know that even at their most prideful, hopeful teens, seventeen year olds, eighteen year olds are still children.  
But not you. Not to them, anymore.  
You're not sure who buried the child, you with that crossbow or them when they walked out of the justice building. It doesn't matter.  
They still have a son, though, and that might actually be the worst problem.

Kazuya's almost symbiotic attachment to you has not changed a single bit. If anything, he seems to pay _more_ attention to you. Not necessarily through his direct presence, but much too often for it to be a coincidence, you find your needs met before you even voice them or try to deal with them yourself. He's there in the kitchen when you stumble out of your study after long sleepless nights, passing you cinnamon rolls that you nibble on absently, letting your senses wake you up from your mind's tunnel vision. He discreetly touches your arm when your breathing speeds up unwarranted, even subtly. He talks to you when you space out. He invites Atsuro and Yuzu, more and more, and the cold house slowly warms up with their presence.  
He has no real interest in coding, but Atsuro does, and before you really know it, your occasional tutoring has turned into an actual mentor-pupil relationship. When Yuzu starts showing skills with the small soldering iron he got for his birthday, he makes sure to ask you for advice, until one day you and Yuzu build an entire circuit from scratch before noticing he's left the room and spent the last half hour trying to make his own pancakes.  
Little by little, he builds new forts in the void in your life. There's his signature over them, even when he's not present, and the more you watch him managing his little world, the more you think that he could have ruled over the arena where you merely stalked.  
Late at night, when you start glitching from the cycles you've locked yourself into, you find him coming to your study, to your room, even, to sit next to you, to talk to you, and sometimes just petting his hair reminds you why you're here.

You're not the only one who notices. He starts working on his homework alone to give you time with Atsuro and Yuzu, so they jump on the occasion to do it with him. Your mother takes great interest in his new cooking hobby, at least until he starts making sweet rolls, or late night stews.  
He's firmly and openly associated himself with you, their golden child, and maybe that's the last nail in the coffin of the son you used to be.

 

When you come home from mentoring your first games, still trying to reassociate after compartmentalising the death of two children under your care, your skin red and raw from showers that couldn't remove all the glitter from your skin, he's the one waiting at the station.  
He runs up to hug you, stops himself when he sees your shoulders curl back, and extends his hand towards yours instead. You take it, squeeze it, and let him move to hug you, at your own pace.

 

When you come back from mentoring your fourth games, there is no one waiting for you at the station. You didn't bother calling to warn about your return. The air is heavy with heat, and people, thankfully, are mostly indoors, working. You timed your arrival well.  
You don't encounter anyone on your way to the Victor's Village, either. Why would anyone go there, when the only inhabited house is your own, aside from your co-mentor's (and _he_ headed straight to the closest bar when he walked out of the train).  
The house feels chilly, even in summer. The thick walls keep heat out, and the windows don't seem to have been opened in days. Weeks, probably.  
The pots in the kitchen are gone. Kazuya had accumulated a nice collection over the years, using the luxury of a victor's life in his own way to build his idea of a home. But the walls and counter are bare, and so, you confirm by opening them, are most of the cupboards.  
You move to the living room. Photos, books--all gone. All that's left is the bare furniture and a pile of textbooks you passed down to Atsuro years ago.  
You can't say you're surprised. Kazuya had been the last link binding you together. They had never liked this house that felt like charity, nor the way he built it as a home around you. They probably packed the very day you and Kazuya stepped into the train.  
Kazuya--  
You choke, grab your mouth like you'll be able to catch the air before it leaves you. Your stomach heaves, but nothing comes to your mouth.  
 _Kazuya_  
Your skin is burning, peeling off your arms and shoulders, cramping on your face, and you almost wish you had sold it now, that you'd surrendered your body for even a hope of mercy. Even if you knew it was hopeless.  
Better stained than empty.  
You still feel his hand in every aspect of the house, from the few decorations left to the way the furniture is arranged to the smell of home that still barely lingers. But there is no gentle touch on your skin. Only your own gripping, clawing fingers.  
Empty.  
You stumble forward, suddenly filled with panic, grip the railing to make it up the stairs. _Not there too..._  
In front of his room, you pause.  
You can't.  
You're not ready to face them, the empty, bared room, the room left untouched, still filled with fragments of his life. You need to know, and yet you can't make yourself touch the handle.  
Schrodinger's room, but neither will hold life. The only cat you have left is the one around your neck, that he never let you give him back.  
You rest your forehead against the wood of the door. Your hands. Your body. The skin of your back is still burning with pain and yearning, and even breathing rakes the inside of your lungs.  
 _Kazuya..._  
There is no one here to see you cry, so you finally do. No more image to maintain--you slide down to your knees, turn to sit with your back to his door, hide your face in your arms and knees. Try not to remember the last time he let go of your hand, the way you still feel it on your skin.  
Stronger than anything, you wish, with all your heart, that you had died four years ago. He would have survived without you, even if you'd betrayed your promise. But your fight to come back to him ultimately destroyed him.  
He was smiling at his interview. He was _shining_ and they hated him, for his assurance, for his disregard of hopelessness, for his fire. For being your brother.  
What a price he paid, for wanting to keep someone like you.

"Naoya!"  
Atsuro's voice rings through the empty house, the front door closes. You hear footsteps, running, around the ground floor and then up the stairs.  
He comes into view, Yuzu right behind him, and freezes when he sees you on the floor. You don't try to stand, or even look up properly. You've failed them about as much as you have Kazuya. You have lost a brother, but they lost their best friend, and you'd have to be blind not to see the feelings they held for him.  
"Naoya..."  
He's knelt next to you, too gentle soul that he is, and though he knows not to hug you outright, his hand is on your shoulder, rubbing it carefully. Yuzu quietly slides down to your other side, hands on her knees.  
"We heard your train was in--why didn't you call?"  
"Sorry I wasn't in," Atsuro continues. "We were at Yuzu's place..."  
Holding on to each other. With you away, with your parents gone, there was no one there to keep Atsuro company, to push away the memory of the other deaths in his life. No wonder he fled the house.  
He rests a hand on your arm.  
"... I stopped them from emptying Kazuya's room. He wouldn't have wanted it--they got mad at me." He gives a sad, empty chuckle. "But the games hadn't started yet, so I said he'd get mad if he came home and his stuff was gone--"  
"Atsuro!"  
You shuddered, but beyond the pain, you still feel grateful. You brought death and misfortune on them, and yet they still treat you like family. You feel safer, more loved with those two kids he brought into your life than you ever did with your own parents.  
You look up at their pale faces and their eyes still red from crying. You haven't been able to do this in years, but you're far too deeply hurt to worry about the usual warning cries your body gives when touched: you open both your arms and draw them close against your chest.


	21. Pinioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied sexual abuse

"Tadashi. A word, please." The two of them turn towards him. "Alone."  
Tadashi frowns, but Mari rests her hand on his shoulder and the curve of his back evens out.  
"I'll be on the roof," she murmurs, before shooting Kresnik a warning look and walking out of the door.  
They stay standing in the empty room, staring at each other. Or glaring, in Tadashi's case.  
"What do you want?" he snarls.  
A week, and he still doesn't trust him. It almost hurts, but he can understand. Orphanages don't breed trust, and neither does losing family.  
In his eyes, Krenik's probably a lapdog of the Capitol, with his nice clothes and looks. And in a way, he's right.  
"... have a seat. I need to talk to you about something."  
The frown doesn't leave his face, but he sits down anyway, eyes never leaving Kresnik's, still burning with the rage Kresnik has never seen him without.  
 _They're going to eat him alive_. The thought hits him suddenly, painfully. He's too raw, too fierce, too paradoxically vulnerable. His youth and cornered beast attitude make the worst combo possible. Kresnik knows at least three of his old "sponsors" who would eat it right up, find pleasure in caging him, tearing off his wings, make the best of how easy he is to crack, but how hard he is to utterly break. And even this young, he can see the hints of the handsomeness that had made his brother popular, the strong, nervous lines in his body, the piercing eyes.  
He's a tragedy waiting to happen.  
And yet. Yet. Kresnik can't wash his hands of him, not when he's promised, not when he sees so much of himself in him. He has to at least try to bring him home. Protecting him from what comes after...  
Well, that will have to come after.  
He calls for service and orders two cups of chocolate.

"... so what's this about?"  
Tadashi sips on his chocolate, not relaxed but at least a little open, and badly hiding his delight at the warm, sweet treat.  
"I wanted to talk about your strategy."  
"You can do that when Mari's around."  
"I don't think you want me to have her around for this conversation." He sighs, waits until he's drunk at least part of the cup. It'd be a pity if it went to waste, without even giving him some comfort and calories. "... Tadashi, I'd have to be blind not to know what you're planning."  
His eyes narrow, and his shoulders curl a bit further over his cup of chocolate.  
"... the hell are you talking about?"  
"Don't act innocent. It'll waste both our times." The kid snorts, and how he wishes he had more time, to make him trust, to make him understand. He doesn't like this game of power, of making him listen by force, when what he really needs is a careful touch. But Tadashi doesn't _have_ time. "Look. I know you don't like me, but this is important. The arena is hell. You think you can handle it, and you probably can, but the thing is, the arena isn't just a place. The arena is people. Not just those you'll be facing. The gamemakers have a show to run, and that means they can decide to kill anyone at any moment, if they think it'll be fun enough or tragic enough for the audience. And popular underdogs make for perfect sob stories." He pauses to make sure Tadashi's following, and sure enough, there's fear dawning in his eyes, the slow, cold realisation of where he's headed. "... Tadashi, you have to be prepared to _come back_."  
" _Like hell I do!_ "  
He's glaring, teeth bared.  
"I'm not letting her die."  
"Tadashi, I _know_. And I'm going to do all I can to protect her. To protect the _both_ of you. But neither of us can guarantee she will make it. And you're not doing her any favour by refusing to admit it, because you know just as well as I do that she's trying to protect you too, and if you head in with your heart set on dying, she's going to have to waste energy monitoring you that she could be spending on herself. And that could cost _both_ your lives."  
He looks down. Mouth tightly shut, hands clenched on his cup.  
"... you both have your chances, Tadashi. You're strong and resourceful. You can make it through, even if she doesn't. Don't throw that away."  
"Why do you even care?"  
It was quiet, hurt, nursed between clenched lips. Anger and pain and resentment at being forced to face his deepest fear.  
"... as hard as you might find it to understand... I do care about you." The kid snorts. "I mean it, Tadashi. You're a good kid." He sighs, and takes a sip of his chocolate before continuing. "I also... made a promise to your brother. He cared about you a lot, Tadashi."  
Tadashi's eyes back on him, burning with anger and unspillt tears.  
"What does it matter? He's dead."  
"So you don't care that he took all that weight on his shoulders to keep you alive?" It's a low blow, and he knows it, but he has to make it stick. The hurt in Tadashi's eyes, though, that's almost enough to make him stop and apologise. "He wanted to protect you, Tadashi, and so does Mari. She loves you, more than you think. Are you going to throw your life away, when they both did so much to protect it?"  
There are tears in his eyes now, guilt. Kresnik takes in a shaky breath.  
"... you have to try and survive, Tadashi. Don't do it for me; I already failed him, you don't owe me anything. But do it for both of them."  
"... I hate you."  
He's hugged his knees, and his voice is quiet, coming from between them, the small space between his knees and face and arms. And Kresnik knows he'll never forgive him. But maybe at least he'll try to live.  
"I know."


	22. Spores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Home"coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at this point we hit a wall with how much we could use "his brother" and "her boyfriend" so. Kaido's older brother is named Hisashi as far as this au is concerned.

The grey-ish beds and their washed out brown blankets haven't changed.  
Not that he expected them to. It hasn't been that long, and the situation in district 12 didn't magically change. And even if it had, this place would be the last to profit from it.  
The rooms are larger than the small one he'd shared with Hisashi. But that's no comfort. Too much space, and too many people. Sharing the dormitory with so many other children puts him on edge, and so does the feeling of space all around his bed. He can barely sit on it without shuddering and compulsively backing up until his back is against the wall. One side protected, at least.  
He misses it. He misses the single room they had managed to scrape for, its old mattresses they had built into proper beds over the months, its little stove and the tv they hardly ever turned on (who had time for that, when you spent all your time making money to survive? The only time it was ever on was during the games). It had been small, but its walls felt safe around him, and in only a year and half, it had become more of a home than this place had in half his life.  
But Hisashi is dead now. No more big brother to convince people they're handling things fine. No more tesserae, for the good _that_ did them. Who would trust a 13 year old to live alone? Without his brother, it's back to the orphanage with him.  
"Orphanage." If only. They call it a community home, and the message's clear as day. This is your home, now. You'll never escape it, not until you're old enough to go down into the mines.  
Orphanages exist only in stories. Orphanages imply people would actually take a kid in.  
He hasn't seen a kid get adopted, not in the seven years he's been there. In the Capitol, maybe it happens. Who knows. But not here, where every mouth is already too hard to feed.  
He should probably feel grateful that they're not killed to begin with. But no, that'd be counterproductive, right? The mine can do that on its own.

He wraps the scarf he pulled from Hisashi's closet tighter around his neck. He hasn't been allowed to keep much (not that they had much to begin with), but they did let him take a handful of clothes and personal belongings. Clothes are hard to come by here; they might not like the idea of one kid having more than the others, but this way they can avoid getting him any new ones for a couple of years. And no one wants to fight him too much. Punishment has never worked well on him: not beatings, not isolation. It's not worth the bite and scratch marks, or the way other kids get scared after the altercations. So they let him be.  
Mari took what she could of the rest. She hesitated, but he told her to. Better with her than thrown away, or given to some stranger. And she needs it to.  
Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe it'd be best for her to just forget. It's not like she's been around much since then. Not that she can help it, probably. She's busy, and the community home doesn't have the most accomodating visiting hours. She can't keep him company at night, like she used to do during the games, when they'd stay up in his tiny room with tea Mari had smuggled from her house.  
But that's probably for the best too. It's not like she can help him.  
 _If I win, we can have a real house!_  
He wonders if Hisashi had actually believed it. Did he actually think he had a chance at winning? He was all determination at the interview. Trying his best to win and come back for their sakes. Pull himself and Tadashi out of poverty, the way he's been trying to do for years. Get engaged to Mari, like he's been _dreaming_ of for years. Did he think he could do it, like he faced every challenge in his life until then head on?  
He's not sure he really wants to know. He feels sick when he thinks about it.  
It's too hot for a scarf, but at least it lets him block out some of the noise around him. And it still smells like home, even if it won't for long.

He sits on his bed, because the outside is no comfort. He hates the sympathetic glances and the wary looks both. People who only see the poor abandoned little brother, people who see the hate in his eyes and only see a troublemaker. In less than a week, he's gotten into enough fights that his town privileges have been revoked, not that it makes much of a difference. They don't have enough staff, and they don't really care, either. There are a lot of spots to sneak out from, especially if you're good at climbing.  
The fights make him feel better, but they also remind him that Hisashi wasn't a fighter. Not in the same way as him, anyway. He finished fights, but rarely started them. He was good at disarming people, not hurting. Not killing.  
Tadashi thinks he could kill.  
He's not like his brother. He can't be strong and smiling and reliable, the boy adults trust and want to help. He doesn't inspire loyalty like Hisashi did--or love, for that matter. He's not good at responsibility.  
But fighting, winning, no matter the cost? He's good at that. Keeping hitting until someone asks for mercy, despite bruises or blood or even broken bones? He's done it before.  
Maybe he wouldn't have been found in a pool of his own blood after barely escaping the sprays of poison the gamemakers had thrown at him. Maybe instead of trying to defend himself he'd have just knocked the guy's skull in with that staff, even if he had to let the other guy cut him for that.   
And he'd probably have had to. There's not much choice when you've got a blunt weapon against a guy with a harpoon. You have to attack first, and pray you can bring him down with you. And _then_ pray you can outlive him.  
He can still see every moment of the fight; they dragged every moment of it out on tv. They liked the drama, the tragedy. The brave underdog with his good looks and shining eyes.  
He was popular, all right. But that would have made three underdogs in a row. Having a winner from district two made things feel a bit more normal, after the two last years.  
He can still see every moment, because he keeps replaying it in his head, asking himself what could have gone differently, how he could have killed the other guy, how he could have avoided the fight altogether. In his head, a very different game starts to form, where different choices are taken, different weapons built, different people killed. He tracks the careers in their conceited complacency. The capitol's little darlings who go in for glory, not to maybe someday have enough food to feed their family.   
But no amount of rewinding can bring him back. It's not like he can do anything about it. Even the boy who killed him is dead, pushed to the floor and skewered, stuck there until the cannon sounded the end of the games.  
The boy is dead, but the gamemakers aren't.

That night, when those who can actually sleep are doing so, he sneaks out of the window and climbs the tree next to the wall.  
Again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Growth Season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728937) by [o0whitelily0o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0whitelily0o/pseuds/o0whitelily0o)
  * [Laurels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779073) by [o0whitelily0o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0whitelily0o/pseuds/o0whitelily0o)
  * [Anaerobia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140927) by [LittleLinor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor)
  * [Preservation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148313) by [o0whitelily0o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0whitelily0o/pseuds/o0whitelily0o)




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